953 

L897 


POEMS  ALL  THE 
WAY  FROM  PIKE 


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n 

ROBERTUS  LOVE 


POEMS   ALL    THE 
WAY   FROM    PIKE 


BY 


ROBERTUS        LOVE 


I  come  from  old  Missouri, 
All  the  way  from  Pike." 


ST  .     LOUIS 

THE     PAN-AMERICAN      PRESS 
1904 


COPYRIGHT,     1904,      BY 
THE     PAN-AMERICAN      PRESS 


TO  THE 
PIKE  COUNTY  COLONY  IN  ST.  LOUIS 


IN     EXTENUATION 

THE  writer  of  these  verses  cherishes  no  ambition  to 
be  ''damned  with  faint  praise"  as  a  neighbor 
hood  poet.  It  so  happens,  however,  that  during 
seven  years  of  his  formative  period  he  was  a  resident  of 
Pike  County,  Missouri.  More  than  thirty  years  ago  Mr. 
John  Hay.  now  the  Honorable  Secretary  of  State,  publish 
ed  "Pike  County  Ballads."  The  Pike  of  Mr.  Hay's  ballads 
lies  in  Illinois,  across  the  Mississippi  river  from  the  Mis 
souri  Pike,  and  is  noted  chiefly  for  having  given  title  to 
the  book  of  virile  ballads  mentioned. 

The  present  author  puts  forth  the  claim  that  Pike 
County,  Missouri,  is  the  most  famous  county  in  the 
United  States,  by  reason  of  the  imperishable  popularity 
of  the  old  "Joe  Bowers''  ballad,  the  authorship  of  which 
is  a  matter  of  dispute,  though  recently  it  has  been  as 
cribed  to  one  John  Woodward,  an  early  vaudeville  singer 
in  California. 

This  ballad  was  first  sung  in  a  variety  theater  or  dance 
hall  in  San  Francisco,  in  the  days  of  the  California!! 
Argonauts  more  than  half  a  century  ago.  Homely 
though  its  style  be,  it  is  compact  of  pathos  and  humor, 
and  the  story  is  woven  into  the  woof  and  fiber  of  the  life 
of  Missouri  and  the  Middle  West.  It  is  not  impossible 
to  trace  the  naming  of  the  "midway"  or  concessions 


street  of  the  Louisiana  Purchase  Exposition  at  St.  Louis 
— "The  Pike" — to  the  influence  of  the  "Joe  Bowers"  bal 
lad. 

Being  a  "Piker"  himself,  the  author  of  "Poems  All  the 
Way  from  Pike"  feels  that  he  possesses  license  both 
poetic  and  proprietary  to  draw  upon  the  celebrated  ballad 
for  the  title  of  his  book. 

R.  L. 
St.  Louis,  May  5,  1904. 


Ballad     of    Joe     Bowers 


(Author  Unidentified.) 


My  name  it  is  Joe  Bowers, 

And  I\'e  got  a  brother  Jkc; 
I  come  from  old  Missouri, 

All  the  way  from  Pike. 
I'll  tell  you  why  I  left  there 

And  hozv  I  came  to  roam 
And  leave  my  poor  old  mammv 

So  far  away  from  liomc. 

I  used  to  court  a  gal  there — 

Her  name  was  Sally  Black; 
I  axed  her  if  she'd  marry  me; 

She  said  it  was  a  whack. 
Says  she  to  me,  "]oe  Bowers, 

Before  we  hitch  for  life 
You  ought  to  get  a  little  home 

To  keep  your  little  wife." 

O  Sally!  dearest  Sally ! 

O  Sally!  For  your  sake 
I'll  go  to  California 

And  try  to  make  a  stake. 
Says  she  to  me,  "Joe  Bowers, 

You  are  the  man  to  win; 
Here's  a  kiss  to  bind  the  bargain," 

And  she  hove  a  dozen  in. 


When  I  got  to  that  country 

I  hadn't  nary  red; 
I  had  such  wolfish  feelings 

I  wished  myself  'most  dead; 
But  the  thoughts  of  my  dear  Sally 

Soon  made  those  feelings  git, 
And  whispered  hopes  to  Bozvers — 

/  zvish  I  had  'em  yit! 

At  length  I  went  to  mining, 

Put  in  my  biggest  licks, 
Went  down  upon  the  boulders 

Just  like  a  thousand  bricks. 
I  worked  both  late  and  early 

In  rain,  in  sun,  in  snow; 
I  was  working  for  my  Sally — 

'Twas  all  the  same  to  Joe. 

At  length  I  got  a  letter 

From  my  dear  brother  Ike : 
It  came  from  old  Missouri, 

All  the  way  from  Pike; 
It  brought  to  me  the  darndest  news 

That  ever  you  did  hear! 
My  heart  is  almost  bursting, 

So  pray  excuse  this  tear. 

It  said  that  Sal  was  false  to  me, 

Her  love  for  me  had  ned; 
She'd  got  married  to  a  butcher — 

The  butcher's  hair  was  red; 
And  more  than  that  the  letter  said 

(It's  enough  to  make  me  swear)  — 
That  Sally  had  a  baby, 

And  the  baby  had  red  hair! 


Titles  in   the  Book 

Page 


The  Ballad  of  Joe  Bowers ( Preceding) 

The  [Missouri  Meerschaum 15 

Sam  Sanders  of  Pike 18 

Back  on  Simmons  Crick j  i 

Little  Johnny  Loney  Boy 24 

A  Ballad  of  Bullfrogs 26 

A  Pike  County  Christmas  Tree 28 

Away.  'Way  Back 33 

The  Pike  County  Xews 35 

Joe  Bowers's  Brother  Ike   39 

Away  Off  Yonder 42 

Jist  Plain  Jim 45 

The  Land  of  the  Big  Red  Apple  49 

How  Sim  Peters  Had  His  Day 51 

The  Boys  I  Went  A-Fishing  With 55 

On  Shanks's  Mare 56 

Back  in  Old  Mizzoury   5& 

Si  Brown's  Philosophy   61 

The  Opera  Hat 63 

The  Jumpety-Jump > . . .  .  66 

A  Letter  to  Brother 68 

At  Lincoln's   Tomb   71 

Jist  to  Be  Contented 75 


TITLES  IX  THE    BOOK— (Continued) 

Page 

In  a  Back-Country  Town 76 

The  Old  Blue  Spelling-Book 78 

On  Lonesome  Avenue   80 

Wood  Scents    82 

Wishin'  for  Fishiiv    83 

The  Things  Worth  While 85 

In  Praise  of  the  Present 87 

The  Cheerful  Heart   89 

The  Boy  Who  Has  No  Santa  Glaus 91 

My  Fond  Coquette   93 

Just  to  Be  Loved 94 

Eugene  Field 95 

A  Lyric  of  Tears  and  Laughter 96 

Junetime 98 

The  Maiden  Poesy   99 

A  Lyric  of  Interludes 101 

The  Mystery 103 

A  Vision  of  Fraternity 104 

Liberty  and  Love    107 

Personality   108 

A  Mountain  Fancy 109 

An  Old  Man's  Comrades no 

A  Lover's  Rhapsody HI 

Monuments 112 

The  New  Thought 113 

The  Three  Oo  Ages 117 

A  Lyric  of  Desires  and  Dreams 118 

Henry  George  Memorial  Verses 120 

The  Winners  of  Laurels 121 

Never  Mind  ! 123 

Appendix 125 


AIL1L  THE  WAY 


The  Missouri  Meerschaum 


SOME  swear  by  light  Havana  leaf  that's  rolled  in  slim 
cigars 

By  swarthy    Cubans'    nimble    hands    beneath   the 
southern  stars ; 

And  when  they  puff  the  fragrant  weed,  mayhap  the  curl 
ing  rings 

Show  visions  of  fandangoes  gay,  and  strumming,  hum 
ming  strings ; 

I  know  not — but  in  truth  I  know  My  Lady  Nicotine 

For  me  enchantments  lovelier  hath,  delights  more  kind 
and  keen : 

The  pipe  that  grows  in  happy  fields  where  I  so  yearn  to 
be— 

The  old  Missouri  meerschaum,  lads,  and  that's  the  smoke 
for  me ! 

So  I  smoke  my  corncob  pipe 

And  I  dream  of  apples  ripe 

In  the  orchard  by  the  road, 

Of  the  fields  of  corn  I  hoed 

Where  my  boyhood  dreams  were  born. 

Oh,  the  far-off  fields  of  corn. 

With  the  river  flowing  by 

And  the  waving  woods  anigh  ! 


16  POEMS  ALL   THE   WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 

Let   dilettante   clubmen   smoke  the   choicest  weeds  they 

choose, 
And,  lounging  on  their    soft  divans,     discuss  the  daily 

news — 

The  ebb  and  flow  of  market  tides,  the  social  swirl  and  set ; 
Their  flavor  cannot  soothe  the  nerves,  it  cannot  kill  regret. 
But  I  shall  sit  me  snug  and  close,  with  humble  pipe  and 

stem, 
To  dream  of  loved     one  far  away — I've     not  forgotten 

them, 
Nor  yet  the  lowly  farmhouse  and  the  fields  of  corn  where 

grows 
The  old  Missouri  meerschaum,  lads,  and  that's  the  pipe 

that  goes ! 

Oh,  the  lyric  lilt  of  birds! 

Oh,  the  tinkle-tinkle-tink 

Of  the  bell  that  leads  the  herds 

Through  the  pasture !  oh,  the  wink 

Of  the  daisy-eyes  that  shine 

In  the  meadow — all  are  mine ! 

And  the  kindly  common  folk 

Beckon  backward  through  the  smoke. 

So,  not  for  me  the  Cuban  roll,  nor  that  which  by  brevet 
Of  courtesy  is  called  a  smoke — the  soulless  cigarette ; 
If  any  dreams  it  conjures  up  I  doubt  not  they  are  spawn 
Of  hideous  hells  where  lunacy  and  leering  idiots  yawn  ! 
I  choose  the  granulated  weed  and  press  it  in  the  bowl 
Of  this  one  only  pipe  that  hath  an  individual  soul— 


THE  MISSOURI  MEERSCHAUM  17 

The  sentient  soul  of  growing  corn  in  fertile  fields  afar : 
The  old  Missouri  meerschaum,  lads,  it  beats  your  best 
cigar ! 

Oh,  its  visions  void  of  guile ! 
Oh,  the  shimmer  and  the  smile 
Of  the  sunshine  on  the  grain 
Gathered  in  the  creaking  wain 
Rolling  barnward !  oh,  the  wealth 
Of  the  heart-ease  and  the  health ! 
Oh,  the  jolly,  holy  joy — 
Mine  again  as  when  a  boy! 


18  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 


Sam  Sanders  of  Pike 

I  RECKON  you've  heerd  of  Sam  Sanders  ? 
He  was  lean  as  a  razor-back  shoat, 
Cross-eyed,  knock-kneed  and  pigeon-toed, 
With  a  beard  like  a  billy-goat. 
No  great  shakes  for  beauty  was  Samuel, 

Nor  anything  extry  for  style ; 
Though  his  coat  was  of  many  colors, 
'Twas  made  so  by  grease  stains  and  ile. 

Now  I  want  to  saw  out  some  opinions 

And  moralize  jist  for  a  bit, 
And  you-all  that  don't  like  my  preaching, 

You-all  can  jist  git  up  and  git; 
For  I'm  'lowing  that  Mr.  Sam  Sanders, 

Whom  you  onct  turned  your  noses  up  at, 
Was  one  of  God's  natural  gentlemen 

From  his  heels  to  his  last  year's  hat. 

Ricollect  when  the  springtime  freshets 

From  the  Mississip'  bust  through  the  dike 
And  come  'crost  the  flats  a-riproaring 

Till  they  kivered  the  best  half  of  Pike? 
How  houses  was  swept  from  their  under-pins, 

And  women  and  kids  and  cows 
Was  cruising  around  on  any  old  thing 

To  save  themselves  from  a  souse? 


SAM  SANDERS  OF  PIKE  19 

Wull,  I  reckon  I'll  never  f orgit  it ! 

I  remark  I  was  right  in  the  swim, 
And  Fd  been  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  now 

If  it  hadn't  a-been  for  him ; 
Yes,  that's  who  I  mean — Sam  Sanders, 

That  worked  on  the  Haley  place ; 
And  if  God  hain't  feathered  a  tick  for  him 

There's  something  dead  wrong  in  the  case. 

Me  and  my  wife  and  the  seven  kids 

From  the  twins  to  the  ten-year-old, 
And  my  old  dog  Pete  and  a  couple  of  cats 

And  a  dozen  old  hens,  all  told, 
Was  riding  her  out  on  the  cow-shed, 

Afloat  in  that  muddy  mess, 
A-breshing  'g'inst  trees  and  colliding 

In  a  way  that  was  hell,  I  confess ! 

Folks  drownded  there  all  about  us, 

Losing  holt  on  the  logs  and  sich ; 
And  a  cuss  who  could  stick  till  rescue  come, 

Though  he'd  lost  all  he  had,  was  rich. 
There  was  only  three  skiffs  in  the  valley 

And  one  had  got  smashed  in  the  jam. 
Another  was  crammed  with  the  Haley  folks 

And  t'other  belonged  to  Sam. 

I  seen  him  rowing  through  drift  and  swirl 

And  pulling  sich  beautiful  strokes 
As  would  make  them  Yale  yaps  envious — 

A-steering  straight  for  my  folks ; 


20  POEMS  ALL  THE   WAY  FROM  PIKE 

And  we  all  dumb  into  his  modern  ark, 
The  women,  the  kids  that  cried, 

Hen-roost  and  all  but  pore  old  Pete, 
For  a  sliver  had  pierced  his  side. 

I  took  one  pair  of  the  oars  myself 

And  we  hit  a  hot  pace  for  the  land, 
But  a  pityful  moan  from  that  wounded  dog 

Was  more'n  Sam  Sanders  could  stand. 
"Jist  hold  'er  stiddy  a  bit !"  he  yelled ; 

And  douse  my  glim  complete 
If  he  didn't  jump  into  that  yaller  flood 

And  swim  for  to  rescue  Pete ! 

No,  he  didn't  go  down  in  a  whirlpool, 

Nor  collide  with  a  murderous  log ; 
He  jist  swum  back  to  the  little  ark 

With  one  fin  around  that  dog ! 
And  I've  heerd  how,  a  year  or  so  after, 

He  was  ketched  and  sent  to  the  pen 
For  fifteen  year  for  a  man-hunt, 

Though  he  croaked  of  the  ager  in  ten. 

And  as  I  have  remarked  of  this  Samuel 

Whom  the  dear  public  held  up  to  scorn 
And  the  papers  slopped  over  with  slanders, 

He  was  mostly  a  gentleman  born ; 
And  the  jury  would  never  convicted  him, 

Nor  the  jedge  concurred  from  his  seat, 
If  they'd  come  around  during  the  trial 

And  interviewed  me  and  Pete. 


BACK  ON  SIMMONS  CRICK  i>l 


Back  on  Simmons  Crick 


LE'S  me  and  you,  Bill  Smith,  th'ow  off  our  dignity 
and  cares 

A  week  or  so — our  hifalutin  English  and  our  airs 
'At  we've  putt  on  sence,  green  as  gourds,  we  left  ole 

Simmonstown 

And  tackled  this  metropolis,  jist  eetchin7  for  renown. 
Le?s  quit 

This  hop-and-jump  a  bit 

And  go  and  fish  in  Simmons  Crick,  and  count  the  bites 
we  git.  / 

It's  nigh  on  thirty  year,  I  guess,  sence  me  and  you,  Bill 

Smith, 
And  them  there  boys  acrost  the  crick  we  went  a-fishin? 

with, 
Sot  down  along  ole  Catfish  Hole,  where  weepin'  willers 

wept, 
An'  gurglin'  waters  laffed  at  them,  along  when  shadders 

crept, 

And  night 

Shet  all  our  corks  from  sight, 
And  only  by  the  jerk  we  knowed  we'd  got  a  likely  bite. 


22  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 

Le's  chuck  our  honors  for  a  spell,  J.  William  Smith,  Esq., 
And  say,  "Dad-burn  the  public  and  the  bus'ness!" 

.     .     .     Time's  a  liar — 

We're  kids  agin,  jist  little  tikes  'ith  pantaloons  'at  won't 
Stay  patched  behind  for  anything,  nor  give  a  dern  'f  they 

don't. 

Le's  slide 

Clean  out  o'  this  here  snide 
Life,  and  go  back  to  Simmons  Crick,  where  joy  ain't 

never  died ! 

I'll  go  behind  ole  Simpson's  barn  and  dig  the  fishin' 

worms, 
Nor  care  a  cuss  for  mud  and  muss,  nor  mikey-robes, 

nor  germs ; 

And  you  can  mosey  up  the  hill  acrost  McCloskey's  ole 
Corn-patch  and  cut  a  pawpaw  stick  to  make  a  fishin' 

pole  ; 

And  then, 

I  jinks  !  'ith  Jim  and  Hen 
We  stover,  me  and  you  will  fish  f'om  four  o'clock  till  ten. 

And  maybe  you'll  fall  in  agin,  jist  like  you  done  that  day 
You  sneaked  your  work — you  mind  your  pap  was  busy 

cuttin'  hay — 
You  nearly  drownded,  and  he  said  'twas   punishment 

because 

You  was  a  disobejunt  boy  and  broke  the  filyul  laws.  .  .  . 
Perhaps 

It's  good  for  us  ole  chaps 
To  learn  a  lesson  that-a-way,  on  how  to  mind  our  paps. 


BACK  ON  SIMMONS  CRICK  23 

Come  on,  Bill  Smith!  shet  up  them  books  on  law,  and 

take  a  j'ant 
'Ith  me  to  Simmonstown  agin.    You're  lookin'  pale  and 

ga'nt, 
For  all  your  wealth  and  honors;  and  for  me — Fve  got 

a  stoop. 

Hooray  for  Simmons  Crick  today!  here's  back  to  boy 
hood — whoop ! 
Gee  whiz ! 

How  many  fish  the'  is, 

And — who's  in  swimmin'  down  the  crick?     .     .     . 
Say,  Bill,  it's  Nell  and  Liz ! 


24  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 


Little  Johnny  Loney  Boy 


O   LITTLE  Johnny  Loney  Boy,  I'm  sorry  for  you,  so ! 
You  have  no  home  to  stay  at,  and  you  have  no 

place  to  go ; 

You  have  no  ma,  you  have  no  pa,  you  have  no  little  sis, 
Nor  even  any  maiden  aunt  to  warm  you  with  a  kiss ; 
You're  just  a  little  loney  boy, 
Without  a  single  childish  joy; 
I'm  sorry  for  you,  so ! 

O  Little  Johnny  Loney  Boy,  I  sometimes  wonder  why 
The  dear,  good  Father  of  us  all,  up  yonder  in  the  sky, 
Has  left  you  here  so  lone  and  drear,  without  your  share 

of  folks, 

Not  even  a  baby  brother  boy  to  pinch  and  tease  and  coax. 
You're  just  a  little  loney  one, 
Without  a  chance  for  any  fun  : 
Pm  sorry  for  you,  though ! 

O  Little  Johnny  Loney  Boy,  Fd  like  to  take  you  home, 
If  I  had  such  a  place  myself,  who  always  have  to  roam ; 
Pd  like  to  take  you  and  tuck  you  in  and  watch  you  while 

you  sleep, 
Or  tell  you  tales  of  Candy  Land,  where  polly-wollies 

creep. 


LITTLE  JOHNNY  L  ONE  Y  BOY  25 

You're  just  a  little  loney  lad, 
Without  a  soul  to  make  you  glad : 
Pm  sorry  for  you,  oh ! 

O  Little  Johnny  Loney  Boy,  I  think  you're  kin  to  me ! 
Come,  let  us  roam  together ;  you  can  sit  upon  my  knee, 
And  tell  me  mighty  mysteries  of  childhood's  yearning 

heart, 

While  I  can  tell  you  lesser  ones  of  manhood's  sterner 
part! 

I  guess  we  both  are  loney  boys 
And  need  each  other  'stead  of  toys  : 
We  won't  be  sorrv,  no ! 


26  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 


A  Ballad  of  Bullfrogs 


OH,  I'm  orful  tired  o'  city  life  and  want  to  git  away 
To  whar  a  feller  has  a  chance  to  sniff  the  curin' 

hay, 

And  see  the  corn  a-tasslin'  out  and  apples  bltishin'  red, 
And  pick  the  watermillons  when  the  stems  gits  dead ; 
But  more  'an  all  the  other  wants  'at  plagues  a  homesick 
feller, 

I  want  to  hear  the  bullfrogs  beller ! 


You've  never  knowed  what  music  is,  you  folks  that  stays 

in  town, 
With  wagons  rattlin'  on  the  stones  and  cyars  sashayin' 

'rounM 
W'y,  when  your  work  is  over  and  you  hurry  home,  you 

droop 

Like  wilted  weeds  in  August  time,  a-settin'  on  the  stoop 
And  hearin'  nary  single  sound  to  soothe  a  lonesome 

feller 

'At  likes  to  hear  the  bullfrogs  beller. 

Tell  you !    I'd  love  to  settle  on  the  old  portyco 

'Long  about  this  twilight  time  and  feel  the  breezes  blow, 


A  BALLAD  OF  BULLFROGS  27 

With   medder   scents    'at  puts   to    shame   your   citified 

cologne 

And  makes  you  feel  the  unyverse  is  ever5  bit  your  own ! 
While,  fom  away  off  down  the  crick,  thar  comes  the 

meltin'  meller 

Bass  fiddlin'  of  the  bullfrogs'  beller ! 

Out  in  the  open  country  is  nature's  orkstry  grand 
'At  never  needs  no  horns  to  toot,  nor  any  fiddlin'  hand ; 
But  when  the  dark  begins  to  fall  and  shet  the  landscape  in 
You  hear  above  the  rest  of  it  the  bass  violin ; 
And  it's  better  than  an  opry  to  the  country-born  feller 
'At  loves  to  hear  the  bullfrogs  beller. 

Yes,  I'm  sick  and  tired  o'  city  life  and  all  its  raspy  noise. 
And  glarin'  lights,  and  revelry,  and  sins  'at  pass  for  joys ! 
I  want  to  slide  clean  out  of  it  and  go  along  the  crick 
And  stand  knee-deep  in  medder  grass  'at  grows  so  green 

and  thick, 

To  hear  the  sound  so  soothin'  to  a  country- Jake  feller : 
Oh,  I've  got  to  hear  the  bullfrogs  beller ! 


28  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 


A  Pike  County  Christmas  Tree 


1RICOLLECT  a  Christmas  tree  that  onct  we  had  in 
Pike; 
There  was  me  and  Minky  Peters,  Joe  Bowers,  his 

brother  Ike,, 

And  haff  a  dozen  other  ducks  as  constitooted  then 
The  "Bible  Class"  in  Sunday  school  and  helped  to  grunt 

"Amen  I" 
When  the  parson  prayed  particular — we-alls  chopped  a 

cedar  tree 
And  stuck  it  up  inside  the  church  ferninst  the  jubilee. 

We'd  done  the  same  a  dozen  years  and  helped  the  gals 

to  trim 
Them  trees  with  Christmas  fol-de-rols  on  every  bloomin' 

limb. 
There  was  popcorn  balls  and  candy  bags  for  Jim  and 

Jess  and  Nell, 

And  Mother  Goose's  poetry  for  kids  that  couldn't  spell, 
And  skates  and  tops  and  jumpin'-jacks,  and  dolls  and 

hoods  and  caps, 
With  here  and  there  a  Testament  for  solemn  little  chaps. 


A  PIKE  COUNTY  CHRISTMAS  TREE  29 

When  Christmas  Eve  was  on  the  slate  we'd  all  collect 

in  there, 
And  Parson  Jones  "uld  cut  the  stack  and  start  the  game 

with  prayer; 
And  then  we'd  yank  the  curtain  back  and   show  that 

blessed  tree, 

Lit  up  with  teeny  candles  that  'uld  fill  the  kids  with  glee ; 
And  while  the  organ  played  a  chune  some  awkward  guy 

would  come 
A-plagiarizin'  Santy  Claus — and  every  kid  was  dumb ! 

The  porest  child  in  Sunday  school  was  little  Jennie  Kerr ; 
She  didn't  have  no  Santy  Claus  to  put  things  on  for  her, 
So  Minky  Peters,  or  Joe  Bowers,  his  brother  Ike  or  me 
Would  always  buy  some  trick  for  her  and  sneak  it  on 

the  tree 
And  write  her  name  acrost  the  cyard,  so  when  the  deal 

begun 
That  little  orphant  tuck  a  hand  and  mingled  in  the  fun. 

When  Marthy  Simpson  run  away  with  Kerr  some  years 

before 
Old  Simpson  turned  agin  his  gal  and  tuck  his  oath  and 

swore 

He'd  never  lift  a  hand  to  help  his  darter — or  her  brats — 
Which  same  I  'low  was  middlin'  mean:  for  Simpson — 

dog  my  cats ! 

Had  money  to  incinerate ;  he  kep?  the  village  store 
And  run  a  bank,  and  had  the  scads  to  start  a  dozen  more. 


30  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 

When  Kerr  himself  skinned  out  one  day  and  shook  his 

wife  and  kid, 

Old  Simpson  kep'  his  word  intact,  and  nary  thing  he  did 
In  all  them  years  to  aid  the  gal,  who  had  to  work  and 

slave 
With  one  foot  on  the  porehouse  stoop  and  t'other  in  the 

grave. 
So  little  Jennie's  pathway  wasn't  filled  with  dolls  and 

things — 
Exceptiir  when  us  grown-up  guys  got  sorter  soft,  by 

jings ! 

Well,  this  particular  Christmas  tree  we'd  started  in  to  pick, 
And  Santy — alias  Joseph  Bowers — was  doin'  of  the  trick. 
He'd  yank  a  present  off  a  limb  and  sing  out  whose  it  wuz, 
And  somewhere  back  among  the  pews  there'd  be  a  kind 

of  buzz, 

And  then  some  bashful  boy  or  gal,  a-sportin'  of  a  smile, 
To  rake  that  Christmas  present  in  would  mosey  down 

the  aisle. 

The  kids  had  mostly  tuck  their  tricks,  and  I  must  shore 
confess 

Of  that  there  sanctuarium  they'd  made  a  holy  mess ! 

For  there  was  'lasses  candy  on  the  cushions  of  the  pews, 

And  haff  the  hymn-books  in  the  church  was  smeared 
with  it,  profuse. 

But  what's  the  odds  ?  for  all  the  kids  was  full  of  Christ 
mas  cheer, 

Exceptin' — I  regret  to  state — exceptin'  Jennie  Kerr. 


A  PIKE  COUNTY  CHRISTMAS  TREE  31 

There  sot  that  little  orphant  on  her  shrinkin'  mother's 

knee, 

Away  off  in  a  corner,  and  the  sight  frustrated  me, 
For  all  at  onct  I  tumbled  that  we'd  clean  forgot  that 

night 
To  put  a  present  on  the  tree  and  make  her  Christmas 

bright  ; 
So  I  winked  at  Minky  Peters,  and  he  winked  at  Santy 

Claus, 
And  Santy  winked  at  Isaac,  who  enlisted  in  the  cause. 

We-alls  went  behind  the  scenery  and  held  a  short  confab, 
The  result  of  which  my  aim  on  this  occasion  is  to  blab. 
Joe  Bowers — which  was   Santy — was   to   entertain   the 

gang 

With  some  most  amusin'  antics  and  some  edifyin'  slang 
'Bout  chimbley-tops  and  reindeers,  and  Kris  Kringle  and 

his  packs, 
While  the  rest  of  us  for  Christmas  goods  to  Simpson's 

store  made  tracks. 

Old  Simpson  waited  on  us.    When  he  axed  us  what  we'd 

like 

We  said  we'd  buy  a  present  for  the  porest  child  in  Pike ; 
Then  his  hard  face   sorter  sof'ened,  and   he  hung  his 

ornery  head 

As  he  handed  me  a  letter,  and  this  is  what  he  said : 
"I  guess  you-alls'  mistaken  if  you  speak  of  Jennie  Kerr ; 
You   needn't   buy   no   present,   boys — jist   put   this    on 

for  her.'' 


32  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 

We-alls    was    somewhat    doobious,    but    we    tuck    the 

letter  in 
And  sneaked  it  on  the  Christmas  tree,  while  Bowers 

drowned  the  din 
And  read  the  name  of  Jennie  Kerr,  who  toddled  down 

the  aisle 
As  gay  as  any  young  'un  there,  though  somewhat  out 

of  style. 
She  tuck  the  mail  from  Bowers's  fist  and  in  her  mother's 

lap 
Deposited  that  envelope  from  Marthy's  ornery  pap. 

When  the  widder  read  the  contents  of  old  Simpson's 

envelope 

She  up  and  fainted  dead  away,  as  if  she'd  swallered  dope. 
Then  Minky  Peters  scowled  at  me,  and  I  scowled  back 

at  him, 
And  we-alls   started  for  the  store  to   douse  a  certain 

glim— 

A-countin'  on  a  present  on  a  Christmas  tree  outside, 
With  the  devil's  name  writ  on  it  acrost  old  Simpson's 

hide! 

We'd  swiped  a  rope  from  Simpson's  barn,  when  Bowers 

called  us  back, 
And  likewise  called  us  several  names — in  language  which 

I  lack; 

And  when  we  got  to  church  agin  he  read  that  letter  out, 
And  every  lung  among  the  crowd  was  bustin'  with  a 

shout. 

Was  it  an  insult  to  the  kid  ?    Not  on  your  liver-pads  ! 
He'd  sent  that  little  gal  his  check  for  twenty  thousand 

scads ! 


AWAY,  'WAY  BACK  33 


Away,  'Way  Back 

I'D    like  to  go  away,  'way  back,  for  just  a  little  while, 
And  sit  me  down  with  Lucy  Brown  upon  her  father's 

stile, 
Just  as  I  used  to  do  at  dusk,  when  whippoorwills  were 

calling 

And  on  the  scented  pasture  grass  the   silver  dew  was 
falling : 

The  day's  hard  work  was  over, 
The  horses  munching  clover, 

And  everything  so  restful  and  so  soothing  and  so  sweet — 
With  Lucy  on  the  stile  there 
To  sit  a  happy  while  there, 
And  talk  about  the  hay  crop  and  the  wheat. 

If  I  could  go  away,  'way  back,  I  think  I  could  recall 
We   thought   about   some   other   things — the   hay   crop 

wasn't  all ! 
On    Lucy's    fathers    pasture  stile,    when    linnets    were 

a-trilling, 

Thoughts    hardly   agricultural    our    truant    heads   were 
filling: 

We  used  to  prate  and  ponder 
On  things  away  off  yonder, 


34  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 

When  we  should  man  and  woman  be  and  build  a  bonny 
nest. 

Ah !  it  was  sweet  to  sigh  there — 

Just  only  she  and  I  there — 
To  think  about  the  hay  crop,  and  the  rest ! 

To  go  away,  'way  back  again  I  need  not  leave  my  wife 
Nor  any  other  glorious  thing  that  makes  me  glad  of  life : 
I  simply  think  of  those  old  fields  where  dreamsome  dew 

was  falling, 

And  through  the  haze  I  hear  afar  delicious  voices  calling. 
The  day's  hard  work  is  over, 
But  neither  horse  nor  clover 

Nor  whippoorwill  nor  linnet's  here,  where  every  field's  a 
street ; 

So  Pll  go  back  awhile  there, 
With  Lucy  on  the  stile  there, 
To  dream  about  the  hay  crop  and — the  wheat. 

And  then  I'll  come  away,  'way  back  from  those  delightful 

days 

Whereto  my  recollection  still,  in  sacred  silence,  strays — 
Come  back  to  hearth  and  home  and  now,  and  Lucy's 

living  smile — 

Praise  God,  she's  just  as  sweet  as  when  we  sat  upon  the 
stile ! 

And  still  we  prate  and  ponder 
On  things  away  off  yonder, 

Ere  we  were  wed  and  flew  to  town  to  build  our  bonny 
nest: 

Just  only  she  and  I  here 
(And  Bye-O-Baby-Bye  here), 
To  smile  about  the  hay  crop — and  the  rest ! 


THE  PIKE  COUNTY  NEWS  35 


The  Pike  County  News 

(By  a  Subscriber  in  New  York  City.) 

YOU-ALL  can  read  your  Trybune,  your  Herald  and 
your  Sun, 
Chuck  full  of  furrin  nonsense,  and  talk  that's  never 

done, 

And  what  goes  on  in  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C., 
Where  we  pay  politicianers  to  jine  that  jabbaree. 
You  can  read  your  high-tone'  papers,  with  tariff  rates 

and  rot, 

And  political  palaver ;  but  for  me — I'd  ruther  not. 
\Vhen  I'm  a-wantin'  readin'  I'm  as  like  as  not  to  choose 
A  little  old  Mizzoury  sheet — the  Pike  County  News. 

It  hain't  no  glarin'  headlines  a-scarinj  you  to  death, 
Nor  pictures   of  disasters   that   makes   you  hold   your 

breath, 

Nor  any  ornery  poetry  by  some  jimcrack  galoot 
The  editor  was  sorry  for  and  didn't  like  to  shoot ; 
Nor  it  hain't  no  blamed  opinions  on  things  you  don't 

know  what 
And  no  man  livin'   onderstands — like  all  these  sheets 

has  got. 

It's  jist  the  plain  old  homespun  fac's  a  feller  can  peruse 
WThen  readin'  in  a  paper  like  the  Pike  County  News. 


36  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 

I  like  to  see  the  mail  man  a-comin'  Friday  night ; 

It  makes  me  peart  and  chipper-like  and  tones   me  up 

a  sight. 

All  week  I  be'n  perusin'  of  these  picture  sheets  they  sell 
Here  in  Noo  York,  but  mostly  gits  their  contents  out  o' 

hell 

Or  some'eres  in  that  latitood,  and  serves  it  up  red-hot 
To  sear  the  souls  of  youngsters,  and  spile  7em,  like  as  not. 
I  tell  you,  when  the  mail  man  comes  a-Fridays  I  enthuse, 
For  I  know  he's  got  the  sheet  I  want — the  Pike  County 

News. 

I  grab  that  paper  eager,  and  I  hustle  for  my  room, 

And   when    I   yank   the   wrapper   off   there's   always   a 
perfume 

Of  good  old  Country  Campbell  press  and  honest  print 
ers5  ink, 

Purt'-nigh  intoxicatin'  as  a  raal  old-fashion'  drink. 

Jist  does  me  good  to  snuff  it  up  and  sniff  the  aromer  in — 

It  beats  your  French  sham-pag-ne  and  it  lays  all  over 
gin! 

No  use  to  drownd  myself  in  drink  to  chase  away  the 
blues : 

Jist  gimme  this  old  sofy,  and  the  Pike  County  News. 

W'y,  here's  the  "Personal"  column  that  tells  how  Homer 

Smith 
Has  gone  to  take  his  bridal  tower — and  who  he  tuck  it 

with; 
And  how  Max  Michael's  in  Noo  York  a-layin'  in  his 

stock 


THE  PIKE  COUNTY  NEWS  37 

(I'll  hunt  him  up  and  chin  him,  if  it  takes  till  twelve 

o'clock !)  ; 
And  how  Ras  Pearson,  that  I  knowed  when  he  was  'bout 

fourteen, 
Is  State's  Attorney  now  and  rights  "the  ring"  at  Bowlin' 

Green. 

These  things  is  all  important,  and  ever'  one  I'd  lose 
If  I  didn't  pay  my  dollar  for  the  Pike  County  News. 

And  here's  a  piece  about  Will  Gray,  that  used  to  run 

"The  Press'' 

When  I  done  local  on  it  and  made  a  holy  mess. 
He's  got  to  be  the  Probate  Jedge  and  passes  on  estates — 
A  lucky  journalist,  for  now  he  gits  the  legal  rates. 
He  used  to  offer  me  advice  'bout  what  he  called  "career," 
And  when  I  mentioned  lit'ratoor  he  said :  "Now,  look-ee 

here, 
You'll  only  starve  to  death  at  that ;  think  well  before  you 

choose/' 
But  still  I  live  on  lit'ratoor — the  Pike  County  News. 

W'y,  here's  a  picture  of  Dave  Ball,  a  feller  that  was 

raised 

'Longside  o'  punkins  in  the  fields ;  I'm  not  a-tall  amazed 
To  read  that  he's  a  candidate  for  gov'nor  of  the  state, 
For  that's  the  kind  o'  cornstalks  that  has  the  runnin' 

gait  ; 

And  when  he  gits  elected — as  you  better  bet  he'll  git — 
I'm  headin'  for  Mizzoury,  to  strike  him  for  a  sit ; 


38  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 


I  hanker  for  a  sinecure,  a  job  where  I  can  snooze 

And  git  my  breath,  and  sal'ry,  and  the  Bike  County 

News. 

This  page  is  where  the  marriages  and  births  and  deaths 
is  found ; 

There  ain't  a  name  that   I   don't   know  from   all   the 
country  'round. 

Here's  'bout  Frank  Chapman's  weddin' — he  runs  a  gro 
cery  store ; 

And  here  I  see  the  Walker  folks  has  got  a  Walker  more. 

'Twas  on  this  page  a  year  ago  with  reverent  eyes  I  read 

A  boy  I  went  a-fishin'  with  was  numbered  with  the  dead ; 

And  one  whose  name  I  name  not — no  need  to  ask  me 
whose — 

T  read  about  her  fun'ral  in  the  Pike  County  News. 
New  York,  1897 


JOE  BOWERS'S  BROTHER  IKE  39 


Joe  Bowers's  Brother  Ike 


My  name  it  is  Joe  Bowers, 

And  I've  got  a  brother  Ike; 
I  come  from  old  Missouri, 

All  the  zvay  from  Pike. 

—Old  Song. 


Don't  nobody  speak 

Or  say  nothin',  or  I'll 
Put  a  hole  in  his  cheek 

That'll  cause  him  to  spile ! 
When  I  gits  my  dander  up  Fm  usually  bad  for  a  while. 

And  it's  shore  up  tonight, 

And  don't  you  forgit 
If  you're  here  for  a  fight 
Pm  p'pared  jist  for  it, 

And  I've  never  yit  met  a  survivor  of  a  fracas  whar  I 
have  fit. 

Xo  man  can  call  me 

\Yhat  he  did  and  survive, 
Or  continue  to  be, 

After  I  shall  arrive. 

For  I  thinks  when  I  hears  sich  buzzin'  there's  too  many 
bees  in  the  hive. 


40  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 

You  black-whiskered  bloke, 

Now  git  ready  for  war, 
For  thar's  go'n  to  be  smoke 

And  confusion,  the'  are ; 

But  we'll  drop  guns  and  fight,  if  you  say,  so's  to  make  the 
thing  squar'. 

What's  that  you  say  ?    Baw ! 

"'Wait  a  while  ;  let  you  speak  ?" 
Got  no  sand  in  your  craw? 

Wouldn't  thought  you  so  weak 

In  the  heart  when  so  overly  strong  in  the  matter  of 
cheek. 

'Mind  me  of  a  man 

I  somehow  kinder  like 
(Though  don't  see  how  you  can)  ; 

Yes,  as  shore's  I'm  from  Pike 
County,  State  of  Mizzoury,  you  fellers  is  somehow  alike ! 

W'y,  of  course  I'm  from  Pike, 

You  big  knock-kneed  galoot ! 
So's  my  big  brother  Ike, 

Who's  likewise  on  the  shoot. 
And  whenever  you  meets  one  of  us  you  had  better  salute. 

You  come  from  Pike  County,  too ! 

What  you  givin'  us,  pard  ? 
None  your  lyin' !    'Twon't  do 

In  this  yere  graveyard, 
For  the  consequences  of  lyin'  is  sometimes  ruther  hard. 


JOE  BOWERSS  BROTHER  IKE        41 

Sw'ar  to  it  ?    Look  yere, 

D'ye  know  old  Jack  Jones  ? 
Do,  uh  ?    (We'll  take  beer, 

Barkeep'.)    Know  that  old  bones, 

\Yho*s  so  mean  that  the  people  he  meets  does  nothin' 
but  groans? 

If  you  do,  what's  his  name? 

That's  it — Simpson — by  Joe! 
You  do  know,  and  you  came 

From  old  Pike,  and  you  know 

Folks  I  do,  and  yere  I've  been  makin*  this  doost  of  a 
blow! 

Ever  know  Ike  Bowers  ? 

He's  a  brother  of  mine, 
And    as  white  as  God's  flowers ! 

Left  thar  'bout  '59. 

Ain't  heerd  much  of  him  sence,  and  for  fifteen  year  not 
a  line. 

Pore  boy,  s'pose  he's — what  ? 

You  him?    I'll  be  blazed 
If  I  hain't  clean  forgot 

Who  I  am  and  whar  raised, 

So  quick  and  complete  Fm  knocked  out  and  bumfoozled 
and  dazed. 

That  beard — well,  that  growed, 
Couldn't  it  ?    But  them  eyes ! 
W?y,  Ike,  I  jist  knowed 

It  was  you  by  your  size 

And  the  prompt  Pike  County  manner  that  you  counter- 
dieted  my  lies ! 


42  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 


Away  Off  Yonder 


WHEN  I  was  a  boy  in  the  sweet  Southwest — 
That  far-off  land  that  I  love  the  best- 
When  my  hair  was  gold  and  my  cheek  was 

brown, 

I  used  to  sit,  as  the  sun  went  down, 
On  the  old  rail  fence  of  the  pasture  lot 
A-wishing  for  things  that  I  had  not 
And  thinking  how  they  might  all  be  got, 
If  Fd  only  get  up  some  gladsome  day 
And  pack  my  pack  and  be  off  and  away— 
Away  off  yonder. 

Fine  scorn  I  had  for  the  pasture  lot 
And  the  fields  of  corn,  for  the  days  were  hot 
And  the  work  was  hard,  and  the  things  at  hand 
Were  never  the  things  my  fancy  planned ; 
So  I  yearned  for  the  'Way  Off  Yonder  Land 
Where  chances  grew  on  gossamer  trees 
In  the  shady  street  of  Do-as-you-please 
In  the  city  of  Somewhere-worth-your-while, 
A  many  and  many  and  many  a  mile 
Away  off  yonder. 


AWAY  OFF  YONDER  43 

At  last  there  came  that  gladsome  day 
When  I  packed  my  pack  and  was  off  and  away, 
Leaving  the  home  of  my  boyhood  and  youth, 
Father  and  mother  and  Maud  and  Ruth, 
Billy  and  John  and  the  rest  of  the  boys, 
The  skates  and  the  sleds  and  the  childish  toys, 
The  dear  old  farm  and  its  simple  joys — 
Off  and  away  on  the  steam-god's  wings 
To  the  big  Wide  World  of  Wonderful  Things 
Away  oft"  yonder. 

Ah,  the  years  are  many  and  lone  and  long 
Since  I  joined  the  Order  of  Endless  Throng 
In  quest  of  the  things  that  I  thought  so  grand 
When  I  dwelt  and  dreamed  in  the  sunset  land ! 
And  IVe  found  that  so  very  much  depends 
On  the  hovering  halo  that  distance  lends; 
And  the  couriers  King  I-want-to  sends 
To  summon  his  subjects  to  pay  him  court 
Invite  to  labor  instead  of  sport, 
Away  off  yonder ! 

The  city  of  Somewhere-worth-your-while 
Is  sick  with  sorrow  and  sad  with  guile, 
And  the  chances  that  grow  on  gossamer  trees 
Are  chances  of  heartache  and  not  of  ease — 
The  muddled  brain  and  the  bending  knees, 
The  foot  that  falters  and  knoweth  not 
The  velvet  tread  of  the  pasture  lot, 
Nor  the  resting  place  on  the  old  low  stile 
A  many  and  many  a  weary  mile 
Away  off  yonder ! 


44  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 

So  now,  as  I  toil  in  the  populous  town, 
My  cheek  grown  sallow  that  once  was  brown, 
I  sometimes  pause  as  the  sun  goes  down, 
A-wishing  for  things  that  I  have  not 
And  thinking  about  that  pasture  lot ; 
Of  the  old  rail  fence  and  the  breeze  that  goes 
Across  the  garden  to  rob  the  rose ; 
Of  mother  and  father  and  Maud  and  Ruth, 
Billy  and  John  and  the  friends  of  my  youth 
Away  off  yonder. 

Yea,  the  lovely  wraiths  of  a  thousand  things 
Are  borne  to  me  on  day-dream  wings 
Out  of  the  West,  the  sweet  Southwest, 
That  'way-off  land  that  I  love  the  best : 
Hands  I  have  held  and  lips  I  have  pressed, 
Hopes  I  have  cherished  but  never  told 
For  lack  of  the  'Way  Off  Yonder  gold. 
Yet,  ah !  what  a  mine  of  marvelous  joy 
Was  all  my  own  when  I  was  a  boy 
Away  off  yonder ! 


JIST  PLAIN  JIM  45 


Jist  Plain  Jim 


DOWN  in  the  city  yistiddy  I  seen  a  feller  there 
I  hadn't  saw  in  twenty  year,  or  thirty,  I  declare ! 
He's  runnin'  of  a  railroad  now,  a  sort  of  president, 
And  folks  do  say  he's  got  to  be  a  hifalutin  gent ; 
But  still  to  me  he  ain't  no  more'n  he  was  when  we  was 

boys 
A-fishin'  down  in  Simmons   Crick,  and  makin*  lots   of 

noise 

At  playin'  Rebel  soldiers.    W'y,  Pm  only  Joe  to  him ; 
And  he  to  me,  as  he  used  to  be,  is  jist  plain  Jim. 

I  says,  says  I  to  Jim,  as  there  I  seen  him  settin'  down 
Before  a  desk,  with  telyphones  and  all  sich  tricks  aromv. 
Says  I :    "Hello,  there,  Jim !"  and  he  looked  at  me  kinder 

hard 
And  says,  a  sort  o7  tired-like  voice :     "I  didn't  git  your 

cyard." 

"I  didn't  write  no  postal.  Jim  ;  I  thought  I'd  jist  drap  in — • 
Run  down  to  town  to  sell  some  mules — and  ask  you  how 

you've  been." 
And — would  you  b'lieve  it? — that  old  Jim,  he  teched  a 

button  there, 
And  some  young  blood  come  stalkin'  in  and  friz  me  with 

a  stare ! 


46  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 

This  upstart  handed  me  a  cyard.    "This  yere's  my  busy 

day," 
Or  somethin'-like,  it  read;  and  Jim,  he  never  grinned, 

but,  say ! 

1  got  to  laffin'  fit  to  kill — I  shorely  thought  I'd  choke, 
Both  on  'em  looked  so  serious-like,  a-playin'  of  the  joke. 
"I'm  busy,  too,"  says  I,  "Lord  knows !  I  got  my  corn 

laid  by, 

But  harvest  time  is  comin'  on;  there's  lots  to  do,"  says  I, 
"But  still  I've  tuck  a  minute  off,  as  every  Tom  and  Dick 
And  Harry  will,  onct  in  a  while,  up  there  on  Simmons 

Crick." 

Jim  pricked  his  ears  up-like,  at  this,  jist  like  a  mule  I'd 

brought 
To  market,  when  he  seen  his  oats.    And  then  he  sot  and 

thought 

A  second.    Course  I  knowed  that  Jim  he  didn't  reco'nize 
Old  Joe,  but  I'd  'a'  knowed  that  boy  in  Yurrup  by  his 

eyes. 
Says  'e,  "Set  down."    I  sot.    "Git  out !"    That  feller  with 

the  cyard 
Got  out  at  onct ;  I  s'pose  he  went  somewheres  and  stood 

on  gyard. 
'Tm  pleased  to  see  you,"  then  says  Jim,  but  sort  of 

doobious-like ; 
"How's  all  the  folks  I  used  to  know  away  up  there  in 

Pike?" 

"Now,  don't  come  none  of  that  on  me,"  says  I ;  "I'm  not 
so  green. 


JIST  PLAIN  JIM  47 


I  know  you've  tried  to  place  me,  but  there's  thirty  year 

between. 
Fm  changed  a  sight,  I  reckon,  but  I  hain't  forgot  them 

days 

We  used  to  go  a-swimmin'  with  the  Joneses  and  the  Rays 
And  Simmonses,  in  Simmons  Crick,  down  there  at  Rocky 

Hole, 
Where  onct  you  walloped   Billy  Ray  and  broke   your 

fishin'  pole." 
Jim  smiled.     "I  jing!"  says  'e,  "I  did;  but  look-ee  here. 

now,  say, 
Fd  sorter  putt  you  down  yourself  as  bein"  Billy  Ray  ?" 

"W'y,  hain't  you  heerd,"  says  I  to  Jim,  "how  Billy,  "way 

back  there 

In  "8 1,  was  drownded  dead  while  skatnr  ?    I  declare!" 
Jim  looked  complete  su'prised  at  this,  and  kinder  hung 

his  head. 
"I  hadn't  heerd;  Fm  sorry  now  I  whupped  him  so,"  he 

said. 
"It's  quare,"  says  'e,  "I  can't  jist  call  your  name  out,  but 

I  know 
You  must  'a'  played  with  me  and  him  some  thirty  year 

ago. 
Where's  Minky  Peters  now?"  says  Jim.     "He's  in  the 

pen,"  says  I ; 
"I  guess  you  think  I'm  Minky,  but  you  got  another  try." 

"Why  can't  you  tell  a  feller  who  you  be,  nohow?"  says 
Jim. 


48  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 

"I  can,  but  won't;  I'll  make  you  find  it  out,"  says  I  to 

him. 
"D'you  ricollect  when  me  and  you  and  Billy  Ray  and 

Pete 
Westover  went  to  skirmish  'roun'  for  somethin'  good 

to  eat? 

We  found  it  in  a  millon  patch  in  Jones's  bottom  field — 
My !  but  them  watermillon  vines  did  have  a  mighty  yield ! 
Two  boys  tuck  one  apiece  and  sneaked  together ;  met  up 

Nell, 
Old  Jones's  gal,  both  on  'em  loved;  she  swore  she'd 

never  tell " 

Say,  but  that  brung  old  Jim  aroun' !    He  jist  riz  up  and 

pawed 
My  neck  and  shoulders,  hugged  me  tight,  and  yee-haw- 

haw-haw-hawed, 
He  was  so  pleased.    He  sniffed  and  snuffed,  and  blurted 

out,  "Hooroo ! 
W'y,  who'd  'a'  thunk  it  ?    Joe — Joe  Brown  ! !    I  knowed 

all  time  'twas  you  !" 
Says  I,  "You  lie  !"  good-natured-like.    Says  'e,  "Where's 

Nellie  now?" 
"She's  Mrs.  Joseph  Brown,"  says  I ;  "I  cut  you  out,  I 

'low." 
Says  'e,  "Congratchylations,"  and  I  seen  his  eyes  was 

dim. 
He's  richer'n  me,  but — don't  you  see? — he's  jist  plain 

Jim. 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  BIG  RED  APPLE  49 


The  Land  of  the  Big  Red  Apple 

(Missouri.) 


THE  Land  of  the  Big  Red  Apple 
Is  the  land  where  I  was  born, 
The  land  likewise  of  sunny  skies 

And  wondrous  walls  of  corn 
That  border  billowed  seas  of  wheat 

Where  yellow  nuggets  gleam — 
Not  Midas  gold,  but  good  to  eat. 
And  glorious  as  a  dream ! 

The  Land  of  the  Big  Red  Apple 

Lies  fair  beneath  her  skies 
As  halcyon  isles  where  summer  smiles 

In  seas  of  Paradise. 
The  lowly  homestead  nestles  there. 

With  daisies  at  the  door, 
While  bloomy  clover  scents  the  air — 

I  smell  it  as  of  yore ! 

The  Land  of  the  Big  Red  Apple 

Is  the  home  of  hardy  men, 
Who  sow  and  reap,  and  work  and  sleep, 

And  wake  to  work  again. 


50  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 

They  go  their  ways  with  heads  erect ; 

And  women  walk  beside, 
Serene  and  sweet  and  circumspect 

And  true  and  tender-eyed. 

The  Land  of  the  Big  Red  Apple 

Is  the  realm  of  a  lordly  race 
Who  do  and  dare,  come  ease  or  care, 

Look  fortune  in  the  face ; 
They  plant  their  orchards,  plow  their  corn, 

Garner  and  plant  and  plow. 
I  thank  my  God  that  I  was  born 

In  such  a  land  as  thou ! 

O  Land  of  the  Big  Red  Apple — 

To  thee  this  ruddy  health 
In  cider  tart  with  Winesaps'  heart 

And  rich  Ben  Davis'  wealth ! 
And  this  one  boon  of  thee  I  crave : 

When  death's  dark  sea  I  cross 
Thy  apple  blossoms  to  my  grave 

The  April  winds  may  toss. 


HO  W  SIM  PETERS  HAD  HIS  DA  Y  51 


How  Sim  Peters  Had  His  Day 


"  <  NT  EVER  a  dog  but  has  his  day," 

1  N    Was  what  Sim  Peters  used  to  say ; 
•'So  I  don't  puppus  to  repine, 
For  some  day,  shorely,  I'll  have  mine." 

So  Sim  he  kep'  on  at  his  work 
And  never  did  no  dooty  shirk, 
But  jist  true-blue  and  all  yard-wide 
He  measured  up  on  ever5  side. 

Sim  had  his  mother  to  support 

Was  why  he  didn't  go  and  court 

That  girl  he  glanced  at  sidle-wise 

And  blushed  so  when  he  ketched  her  eyes. 

You-alls  don't  ric'lect  Mary  Ann 
O'Donohue  and  that  there  man 
She  used  to  go  with  'long  about 
Time  for  the  ellum  buds  to  sprout? 

Purty  ?    Well,  now,  I  beg  to  state ! 
I  mind  how  onct  she  come  in  late 
To  school,  and  when  she  sort  o'  smiled 
The  master  shet  up,  reconciled. 


52  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 

Couldn't  resist  that  smile  of  her'n ; 
'Twas  like  a  rosebud  'bout  to  turn 
Into  a  blossom,  and  her  mouth 
Was  Ireland  married  to  the  South. 

That  was  the  girl  Sim  Peters  'lowed 
Was  perfectest  of  all  the  crowd ; 
And  though  he  never  said  so,  still 
We  knowed  he  loved  her  fit  to  kill. 

You  know  Sim's  mother  was  bed-ridden 
And  Sim  jist  banked  on  her,  and  didn' 
Let  nothin'  interfere  with  him 
A-tendin'  mother — that  was  Sim. 

Givin'  her  medicine  for  her  cough 

He  saw  his  cronies  married  off ; 

And  when  they  joshed  him,  Sim  'uld  say, 

"No  matter — every  dog's  his  day." 

But  when  he  heerd  that  Mary  Ann 
Was  married  to  that  other  man 
Sim  grit  his  teeth  so  they  was  heerd 
All  'round,  but  never  gulped  no  word. 

He  jist  went  back  into  the  house, 
Creepin'  as  quiet  as  a  mouse, 
And  kneelin'  down  'longside  the  bed, 
"Well,  mother,  how  you  feel?"  he  said. 

The  years  went  by,  as  books  would  say, 
And  many  a  dog  had  had  his  day, 


HOW  SIM  PETERS  HAD  HIS  DA  Y 

Partic'ly  that  dog  sort  o7  man 
That  married  purty  Mary  Ann. 

He  soon  turned  out  a  wuthless  cuss. 
Always  a-rakin?  up  a  fuss 
With  Mary  Ann  O'Donohue, 
In  spite  o'  swearin'  to  be  true. 

He'd  never  beat  her,  for  she  had 
A  sperrit  in  them  eyes  so  sad 
That  told  him  she  was  full  o'  spunk — 
Till  onct  he  come  home  beastly  drunk. 

And  then  he  struck  her !    Sim  was  nigh — 
Jist  happened  to  be  passin'  by, 
And  heerd  her  screams ;  he  bust  inside, 
And  there  the  dog  was,  bleary-eyed. 

Sim  Peters  grabbed  him  by  the  hair 
And  by  the  throat,  and  yelled,  "How  dare 
Ye  strike  a  woman — and  Mary  Ann ! 
Ye  never  dassen'  strike  a  man ! 

"My  day  has  come  at  last !"  said  Sim, 
A-chokin'  and  a-poundin'  him.     .     .     . 
I  tell  you,  there's  no  beast  uncaged 
Wild  as  an  honest  man  enraged. 

The  neighbors  looked  on,  awed  and  still. 
They  knowed  he  loved  her  fit  to  kill, 
And  yit  they  dassen'  tech  the  man 
Who'd  loved  and  lost  his  Mary  Ann. 


54  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 

Jist  as  the  drunkard's  strugglin'  quit 
A  man  come  running  hell-to-split. 
"Your  mother's  dyin',  Sim !"  he  said  ; 
Then  Sim  let  go,  and  hung  his  head. 

That's  all.     .     .     .     This  ain't  no  story-book, 
And  you-alls  has  no  call  to  look 
So  all-fired  cross  'cause  I  don't  say 
Sim  weds  the  widder  that  same  day. 

Because  he  didn't,  don't  you  see.     .     .     . 
She  putt  on  mournin'  clo'es,  and  he — 
He's  in  Jeff  City  pen  for  life, 
While  she's  some  other  feller's  wife. 


THE  BOYS  I  WENT  A-FISHING  WITH 


The  Boys  I  Went  A-Fishing  With 


I   WONDER  where  the  Jones  boys  are 
I  used  to  go  a-fishing  with, 
And  Stephen  Paine,  and  Melvin  Parr, 
And  cross-eyed  Charley  Smith. 

Do  they  still  roam  the  winding  streams 
Of  swift  events  that  ceaseless  flow, 

To  angle  for  the  gold  that  gleams 
Alluringly  below  ? 

Or  have  they  quit  the  patient  quest 

And  unrewarded  gone  away, 
In  quiet  fields  to  lie  and  rest 

Forever  and  a  day  ? 

I  wonder  where  the  old  men  are — 
The  Joneses,  cross-eyed  Charley  Smith, 

And  Stephen  Paine,  and  Melvin  Parr, 
That  I  went  fishing  with  ? 


56  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 


On  Shanks's  Mare 


ALL  sorts  of  travelin'  ways  there  be, 
But  only  one  that  jist  suits  me 
For  all  times,  mornin',  noon  and  night ; 
I  'low  that  one's  my  favor-ite ; 
Fm  always  shore  of  gittin'  there 
Complete  on  faithful  Shanks's  mare. 

You-all  can  ride  your  blooded  stock, 
A-struttin'  like  a  sportin'  cock, 
With  pants  too  tight,  or  else  too  loose, 
And  t'other  fixin's  spick  and  spruce ; 
But  as  for  me,  I'm  gittin'  there 
Quite  comf'able  on  Shanks's  mare. 

Jist  mount  your  bicycle,  young  man, 
And  ketch  Lucindy,  if  you  can ; 
She's  wearin'  them  divided  skirts, 
And  rides  a  diamond  frame — and  spurts ; 
But  ain't  no  rubber  tire  to  tear 
Dependin'  on  old  Shanks's  mare. 

Some  folks  I  see  has  ketched  right  bad 
This  hossless  ortomobile  fad, 
And  spins  around  like  anything 


ON  SHANKS'S  MARE  57 

Without  no  wagon  tongues,  by  jing ! 

But  I  feel  safer,  I  declare, 

With  full  control  of  Shanks's  mare. 

Them  railroad  cyars  is  slick  enough. 
But  smash-up  times  is  mighty  tough ; 
And  these  here  trolleys  and  your  cabs 
Are  layin'  victims  on  the  slabs  ; 
And  then  it  don't  cost  any  fare 
To  take  a  ride  on  Shanks's  mare. 

So  as  for  me,  I  think  I'll  stay 
A  convert  to  the  good  old  way, 
And  do  my  travelin7  safe  and  sound 
With  nothin'  'twixt  me  and  the  ground. 
You  can  depend  on  gittin'  there 
Complete  on  faithful  Shanks's  mare. 


58  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 


Back  in  Old  Mizzoury 


BACK  in  old  Mizzoury  is  where  I'd  like  to  be, 
Mixin'  with  the  home-folks — that's  what  ketches 

me! 

Back  among  the  people  that  I  know  is  good  and  true, 
Hearin'  all  the  neighbors  a-sayin',  "How-de-do  ?" 
Settin'  on  the  doorstep  or  layin'  on  the  grass, 
Watchin'  farmers'  wagons  and  the  schoolboys  pass ; 
Showin'  mother  how  to  fix  the  back-door  latch, 
Else  a-helpin'  father  to  weed  the  garden  patch. 
Jist  like  it  was  before  I  started  out  to  roam — 
Back  in  old  Mizzoury,  where  it  feels  like  home. 

No,  I  ain't  homesick — it  ain't  like  that. 

Didn't  never  give  a  cuss  wherever  I  was  at 

So  I'm  doin'  middlin',  but  I  jist  sort  o'  feel 

Like  I'd  love  to  happen  home  and  git  a  square  meal, 

Sleep  in  a  feather  bed  that  lets  you  sink  down, 

Have  mother  come  and  tuck  the  kiver  all  roun', 

Putt  a  hot  iron  for  to  warm  your  feet, 

Say  a  few  words  that  is  soothin'  and  sweet : 

Love  to  be  back  there  ?    Tell  you  I  would ! — 

Back  in  old  Mizzoury,  where  a  feller  feels  good. 


BACK  IN  OLD  MIZZOURY  59 


Back  to  old  Mizzoury  is  where  I  want  to  go, 

Where  the  biggest  rivers  in  the  whole  world  flow, 

And  the'  ain't  no  signs  for  to  keep  off  the  grass, 

Nor  any  derned  policeman  with  his  double-derned  sass, 

?N'  I  can  go  a-fishin'  with  a  pawpaw  pole, 

Or  swim  stark  naked  in  the  old  swimmin'  hole, 

Or  holler  if  I  want  to  like  I  used  to  could 

When  I  felt  so  happy  and  gay  and  good. 

Love  to  go  back  agin  ?    I  should  say ! 

Back  in  old  Mizzoury,  where  a  feller  feels  gay. 

Back  in  old  Mizzoury  is  where  I  long  to  be. 
Golly !  but  I'm  hungry  for  to  climb  up  a  tree. 
Loaf  in  the  cornfield  and  hear  the  men's  jokes, 
"Tend  a  pickanick  with  the  Sunday  school  folks. 
Jump  on  the  turnin'-pole  and  skin  the  cat, 
Play  town-ball  with  a  homemade  bat, 
Hunt  hens'  nests  in  the  barn-loft  hay 
And  bury  all  the  eggs  for  Easter  day — 
Gee !  but  Fd  love  to  do  jist  what  I  did 
Back  in  old  Mizzoury  when  I  was  a  kid. 

Say  Fm  too  old  ?    W'y,  you  don't  know  me ! 

Fm  jist  as  young  as  I  used  to  be. 

Whiskers  and  wrinkles  don't  count  for  a  cent. 

S'posin'  I  am  jist  a  little  bit  bent  ? 

Bein'  in  Mizzoury  'uld  straighten  me  up 

'N'  make  me  as  chipper  as  a  fresh  buttercup. 

Fd  be  a  daisy  and  a  dandyline, 

Ownin'  all  the  pasture  and  a-feelhV  fine, 


00  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 

Snortin'  aroun'  like  a  big  yearlin'  calf, 

Back  in  old  Mizzoury — w'y,  you  make  me  laff ! 

Back  for  old  Mizzoury  is  where  I'm  linin'  out. 
Listen  when  I  git  there  and  you'll  hear  me  shout ! 
When  I  cross  the  drawbridge  on  the  old  Mis'sip, 
All  the  State'll  listen  to  my  "Hip !  hip !  hip ! 
Hooray  for  old  Mizzoury !  hooray !  hooray !  hooray !" 
Here's  the  boy  who's  sorry  he  ever  went  away ; 
Here's  the  kid,  the  colonel,  the  cranky  old  galoot, 
Headin'  home  from  Jersey  on  the  bee-line  route ; 
Here's  the  man  a  boy  agin,  jist  a  little  tike 
Back  in  old  Mizzoury,  home  agin  in  Pike ! 

Asbury  Park,  New  Jersey,  1894. 


57  BRO  WWS  PHIL  OSOPH  V  61 


Si  Brown's  Philosophy 


o 


LD  SILAS  BROWN'S  philosophy 
Was  just  as  cheerful  as  could  be. 


"I  don't  believe  a-tall,"  said  Si, 
"In  worryin7 — no,  sir,  not  I ! 
That  sort  o'  thing  ain't  made  for  me. 
I  jist  take  things  as  they  come  'long, 
And  if  I  can  I  sing  a  song, 
And  if  I  can't  I  screw  my  gums 
And  whistle  till  the  music  comes. 

"I  never  borry  trouble ;  I 
Have  plenty  of  my  own,"  said  Si ; 
"Enough  to  last  me  through  the  week 
And  over  Sunday,  and  I  don't 
Ask  any  man  to  lend  me  more — 
Not  if  he  offers  it  I  won't. 
'Twill  be  a-plenty  time  to  speak 
For  that  when  I  git  trouble-pore. 

"And  mostly  I've  a  mind,"  said  Si, 
"That  all  your  trouble's  in  your  eye. 
If  you'd  jist  settle  down  and  think 
You're  doin'  well  enough,  and  let 


62  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 

Things  go  at  that,  I  want  to  bet 
YouM  never  lose  another  wink 
O'  sleep  in  worryin'  about 
*    The  bothers  you  can  do  without. 

"I  take  things  as  they  come,"  said  Si ; 
"Don't  count  much  on  sweet  by-and-by, 
Nor  don't  peek  back  with  vain  regrets. 
These  days  and  what  they  bring  along 
Are  good  enough ;  so  I  say  let's 
Jist  jog  along  and  sing  a  song 
And  take  what  comes,  and  thank  the  Lord 
He  don't  send  troubles  by  the  cord." 

Old  Silas  Brown's  philosophy 
Is  good  enough  for  you  and  me. 


THE  OPERA  HAT  63 


The  Opera  Hat 


I    HAVE  bought  me  an  opera  head-piece  today, 
To  wear  with  my  swallow-tail  coat  to  the  play. 
As  a  citified  chap  I  must  keep  in  the  style, 
So  I've  got  me  a  stovepipe  adjustable  tile. 
It's  a  wonderful  hat : 
You  can  press  it  down  flat 
Without  damage,  as  though  on  its  crown  you  had  sat. 

When  I  put  the  thing  on  (I  had  ordered  the  hack) 
And  stood  up  where  the  mirror  reflected  me,  "Jack." 
Said  my  wife,  "you  look  perfectly  lovely  in  that ; 
I'm  so  glad  you  have  bought  you  an  opera  hat !" 

And  I — I  couldn't  speak 

As  I  kissed  her :  my  cheek 
Was  wet  with  a  tear,  for  my  heart  sprung  a  leak. 

Yes,  my  heart  sprung  a  leak,  for  I  thought  of  a  day 
In  the  long,  long  ago  and  the  far,  far  away, 
When  a  boy  on  a  farm,  with  a  dime  that  he  earned 
Doing  chores,  bought  a  hat  which  a  long  time  he'd 
yearned 

To  possess — oh !  but  that 
Was  a  wonderful  hat, 

For  it  came  back  to  shape,  though  you  mashed  it  quite 
flat. 


64  POEMS  ALL  TH'E   WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 

'Twas  a  hat  made  of  straw,  with  a  brim  that  was  wide 
As  a  city  girFs  parasol ;  it  drooped  at  each  side. 
And  it  flopped,  as  I  ran,  like  the  wings  of  a  bird. 
Now  my  wife,  I  am  sure,  would  pronounce  it  absurd ; 
But  of  Nellie,  the  lass 
By  whose  home  I  would  pass, 
I  thought  with  much  pride,  as  I  looked  in  the  glass. 

I  was  sure  she  would  say  my  new  hat  was  "so  sweet," 
And  it  made  my  young  heart  like  a  trip-hammer  beat 
When  I  donned  that  big  straw  and  went  singing  away 
To  the  upper  creek  bottom  to  help  with  the  hay ; 
Yes,  my  heart  sang  a  tong — 
It  was  sweet,  it  was  strong — 
As  down  through  the  lane  my  bare  feet  ran  along. 

Through  the  lane  that  was  bordered  with  daisies 

bedewed — 

A  beaded  elixir  divine  that  is  brewed 
Every  dawn,  for  the  daylight  to  dabble  and  drink 
From  the  chalice  of  blossoms  that  roguishly  wink ! 
Oh,  my  soul  in  its  beams 
Was  resplendent  with  dreams  ; 
And  how  honeyed,  how  hallowed,  that  memory  seems ! 

Why,  of  course  I  am  happy  up  here  in  the  crowd, 
As  we  sit  at  the  play.    My  applause  is  as  loud 
As  the  man's  down  in  front  who  has  never  been  glad 
With  the  joy  of  a  barefooted,  straw-hatted  lad 

With  a  sweetheart,  you  know, 

In  a  blue  calico.     .     .     . 
They  would  smile  at  that  costume  up  here  at  the  show. 


THE  OPERA  HAT  65 


You  remember  it,  Helen — my  Nellie  of  old, 
My  wife  with  a  heart  that  is  pure  as  the  gold 
Of  the  tresses  that,  kissing  your  opera  coat. 
Outglamor  the  jewels  that  gleam  at  your  throat ; 

You  remember  it,  dear. 

And  the  straw  hat  so  queer. 
And  the  lane,  and  the  daisies,  and — and — what !  a  tear? 

There,  now !  queen  of  hearts,  you  are  missing  the  play ! 

It  was  long,  long  ago,  it  was  far,  far  away, 

And  our  dreams  are  fulfilled.     ...     Of  the  world's 

ruddy  wine 

We  have  drank,  we  are  drinking.     .     .     .     It's  famous 
and  fine 

To  be  counted  bon-ton, 
For  when  I  was  plain  John 
And  you  Nell,  these  were  things  that  we  doted  upon. 

Then  we'll  go  back  tomorrow — we'll  take  the  first  train, 
And  we'll  look  for  a  straw-hatted  lad  in  a  lane, 
And  a  girl  at  a  door  with  a  broom  in  her  hand, 
And  the  men  in  the  hayfield,  and  father,  and — and — 
Well,  the  opera  hat 
You  have  praised  so — it's  that 
Has  befoggled  me  so  I  forget  where  I'm  at ! 


POEMS  ALL   THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 


The  Jumpety-Jump 


LORDY!  but  Pm  tired  o'  this  jumpety-jump, 
This  etarnal  hustle  for  somethin'  to  eat, 
This  git-up-and-dustin'  and  havin'  to  hump 

Yourself  like  creation  to  keep  on  your  feet ! 
I'm  sick  and  Fm  tired  o'  the  drudgin'  along — 
No  time  for  a  snooze  and  no  time  for  a  song; 
For  it's  everything  hurry 
And  everything  worry 
And  always  a  struggle  and  always  a  strife : 
Fd  like  to  do  nothin'  the  rest  o'  my  life ! 

Gee !  but  I  hate  it  all  wuss  than  the  deuce — 

This  grindin'  and  grindin'  and  grindin'  away, 

Jist  to  keep  grindin'.    I  say,  what's  the  use? 

Where's  all  the  good  o'  the  grind?    Does  it  pay? 

What's  the  use  toilin'  and  moilin'  to  find 

Food  for  the  stummick  while  starvin'  the  mind  ? 
For  it's  always  a  hustle 
And  always  a  tussle, 

And  never  no  end  to  the  struggle  and  strife : 

I'd  love  to  do  nothin'  the  rest  o'  my  life ! 

Gosh !  but  Fd  like  to  go  out  in  the  woods 

And  loaf  on  the  grass  in  the  shade  of  a  tree ; 


THE  JUMPE  TY-JUMP  67 

Nothin'  to  do  but  to  gether  the  goods 

That  nature  pervides  for  the  sparrers  and  me ; 
Open  your  mouth  and  git  fat  on  fresh  air, 
Don't  give  a  dern  for  the  clo'es  that  you  wear, 
Think  as  you  lay  there 
You  always  can  stay  there — 
Never  no  struggle  and  never  no  strife : 
Jist  to  do  nothin'  the  rest  o?  your  life ! 

Golly !  but  what  a  delight  to  be  free 

F''om  all  the  fool  notions  of  civilized  men ; 

Bathe  in  God's  blessin's  stark  naked  and  be 

Shin-deep  in  daisies,  and  learn  f  om  the  wren 

How  to  be  happy — forgit  all  the  wrong. 

Have  time  for  a  snooze  and  have  time  for  a  song ; 
With  nothin'  to  worry, 
No  need  for  to  hurry, 

No  call  to  go  back  to  the  struggle  and  strife : 

Jist  to  do  nothin'  the  rest  o'  my  life ! 


68  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 


A  Letter   to   Brother 


AH,  brother,  don't  you  know, 
I  long  to  turn  and  go 
Back  where  we  used  to  be, 
At  mother's  knee. 

I  long  to  turn  my  back 
On  all  the  world's  mad  wrack 
And  go  far  leagues  apart 
To  mother's  heart. 

I  know  that  all  the  years 
Her  faith,  her  prayers,  her  tears 
Have  all  been  yours  and  mine — 
And  yet  I  pine. 

I  pine  for  that  dear  touch 
Of  hands  that  meant  so  much 
On  curly  dreamful  head 
In  trundle-bed. 

I  yearn  for  that  sweet  kiss — 
None  other  since,  I  wis, 
Hath  given  such  respite 
From  sorrow's  blight. 


A  LETTER  TO  BROTHER  69 

I  will  come  back  again ! 
We  are  no  longer  men, 
But  only  beardless  boys 
With  homely  joys. 

I  will  come  back,  and  we 
Shall  sit  at  mother's  knee 
And  try  to  make  her  feel 
Our  youth  is  real. 

The  world's  rude  storm  and  fret 
We'll  banish  and  forget, 
And  by  the  dream  beguiled 
Be  each  a  child. 

We'll  ask  from  mother's  lips 
A  tale  of  seas  and  ships 
And  cities,  oh,  so  far 
From  where  we  are  ! 

We'll  follow  on  the  track 
Of  Giant-Killer  Jack ; 
Red  Riding-Hood's  grim  tale 
Shall  make  us  quail. 

And  then — and  then,  mayhap 
I,  being  a  tiny  chap, 
Shall  fall  asleep  and  dream 
Of  sweets  supreme. 

Doughnuts,  and  ginger-bread, 
And  apples  rosy  red, 


70  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 

And  hazel-nuts,  and  pies 
Broad  as  the  skies ! 

And  something  else — ah,  yes ! 
The  mother-hand's  caress ; 
No  dream  that  touch,  but  felt 
Here,  where  Fve  knelt ! 

New  London,  Connecticut,  1899. 


A  T  LINCOLN'S  TOMB  71 


At  Lincoln's  Tomb 


(Being  the  Reminiscences  of  the  Hon.  Jason  Petti- 
grew,  of  Calhoim  County,  111.,  in  1895.) 

ABE  LINCOLN?    Wull,  I  reckon  !    Not  a  mile  f  om 
where  we  be, 
Right  here  in  SpringfieF,*   Illinoise,  Abe  used  to  room 

with  me. 

He  represented  Sangamon,  I  tried  it  for  Calhoun, 
And  me  and  Abe  was  cronies  then ;  I'll  not  forgit  it  soon. 

I'll  not  forgit  them  happy  days  we  used  to  sort  o"  batch 
Together  in  a  little  room  that  didn't  have  no  latch 
To  keep  the  other  fellers  out  that  liked  to  come  and  stay 
And  hear  them  dasted  funny  things  Abe  Lincoln  used 
to  say. 

Them  days  Abe  Lincoln  and  myself  was  pore  as  anything. 
Job's  turkey  wasn't  porer,  but  we  used  to  laff  and  sing, 
And  Abe  was  clean  chuck  full  o"  fun ;  but  he  was  sharp 

as  tacks, 
For  that  there  comic  face  o'  his'n  was  fortyfied  with  fac's. 


*  See  appendix. 


72  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 

Some  fellers  used  to  laff  at  Abe  because  his  boots  and 

pants 
Appeared  to  be  on  distant  terms;  but  when  he'd  git  a 

chance 
He'd  give  'em  sich  a  drubbin'  that  they'd  clean  forgit  his 

looks, 
For  Abe  made  up  in  common  sense  the  things  he  lacked 

in  books. 

Wull,  nex'  election  I  got  beat,  and  Abe  come  back  alone ; 
I  kep'  a-clinkin'  on  the  farm,  pervidin'  for  my  own. 
You  see,  I  had  a  woman,  and  two  twins  that  called  me 

paw; 
And  Abe,  he  kep'  a-clinkin',  too,  at  politics  and  law. 

I  didn't  hear  much  more  of  Abe  out  there  in  old  Calhoun, 

For  I  was  out  o'  politics  and  kinder  out  o'  chune 

With  things  that  happened;  but  'way  back  I'd  named 

my  two  twin  boys — 
One  Abraham,  one  Lincoln ;  finest  team  in  Illinoise ! 

Wull,  here  one  day  I  read  that  Abe's  among  the  candi 
dates 

(My  old  friend  Abe !)  for  President  o'  these  United 
States  ; 

And  though  I  had  the  rheumatiz  and  felt  run  down  and 
blue, 

I  entered  politics  agin  and  helped  to  pull  him  through. 

And  when  nex'  spring  he  called  for  men  to  fetch  their 
grit  and  guns 


AT  LINCOLN'S   TOMB  73 

And  keep  the  Ship  o'  State  afloat,  I  sent  him  both  my 

sons, 
And  would  V  gone  myself  and  loved  to  make  the  bullets 

whiz 
'F  it  hadn't  b'en  I  couldn't  walk  account  o?  rheumatiz. 

Wull,  Abe — my  little  Abe,  I  mean — he  started  out  with 

Grant ; 
They  buried  him   at   Shiloh.     .     .     .     Excuse   me,  but 

I  can't 
Help  feelin'  father-like,  you  know,  for  them  was  likely 

boys  ; 
The'  wasn't  two  another  sich  that  went  f'om  Illinoise ! 

And  Lincoln — my  son  Lincoln — he  went  on  by  his  self, 
A-grievin'  for  his  brother  Abe  they'd  laid  upon  the  shelf, 
And  when  he  come  to  Vicksburg  he  was  all  thrashed 

out  and  sick ; 
And  yit,  when  there  was  fightin",  Link  fit  right  in  the 

thick. 

One  night  afore  them  Rebel  guns  my  pore  boy  went  to 

sleep 
On  picket  dooty.  .  .  .  No,  sir;  'tain't  the  shame 

that  makes  me  weep  : 

It's  how  Abe  Lincoln,  President,  at  Washington,  D.  C., 
Had  time  to  ricolleck  the  days  he  used  to  room  with  me ! 

For  don't  you  know  I  wrote  to  him  they'd  sentenced  to 

be  shot 
His  namesake,  Lincoln  Pettigrew,  in  shame  to  die  and 

rot; 


74  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 

The  son  o'  his  old  crony,  and  the  last  o'  my  twin  boys 
He  used  to  plague  me  so  about,  at  SpringneF,  Illinoise. 

Did  he?    Did  Abe?    Wull,  now,  he  sent  a  telegraph  so 

quick 
It  burnt  them  bottles  on  the  poles  and  made  the  lightnin' 

sick! 

"I  pardon  Lincoln  Pettigrew.     A.  Lincoln,  President." 
The  boy  has  got  that  paper  yit,  the  telegraph  Abe  sent. 

I  guess  I  knowed  Abe  Lincoln !  and  now  Fve  come  down 
here — 

Firs'  time  I  b'en  in  SpringfieF  for  nigh  on  sixty  year — 

To  see  his  grave  and  tombstone,  because  ...  be 
cause,  you  see, 

We  legislated  in  cahoots,  Abe  Lincoln  did,  and  me. 


JIST  TO  BE  CONTENTED  75    . 


Jist   to  Be  Contented 

OH,  it's  jist  to  be  contented 
With  the  blessed  things  you've  got : 
Jist  jog  along  and  sing  a  song, 

Jist  strike  an  easy  trot ; 
For  that's  the  only  happiness 
That  ever  comes  to  folks,  I  guess. 

There  ain't  no  use  a-cryin' — 

Only  makes  your  eyes  look  bad ; 

So  dry  your  tears  and  doff  your  fears 
And  make-believe  be  glad ; 

For  if  you  laff  and  joke  awhile 

T'll  soon  come  easy  for  to  smile. 

Some  folks  delight  in  lookin' 

On  the  darker  side  o'  things ; 
But  I  tell  you  the  skies  are  blue 

More  times  than  black,  by  jings ! 
So  what's  the  use  to  borry  care, 
When  comfort  's  gratis  everywhere? 

So,  it's  jist  to  be  contented 

With  whatever  good  things  be, 

Nor  try  to  soar  for  somethin'  more — 
Jist  gobble  what  you  see, 

And  Fll  bet  ten  to  one  for  odds 

You'll  swig  the  nectar  of  the  gods  ! 


76  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 


In  a  Back  Country  Town 


THIS  is  the  town —  the  old  slow  town. 
Why,  nothing  ever  happens  here  ; 
The  same  dull  folk  go  up  and  down 

The  same  dull  streets  from  year  to  year 
And  yet — and  yet  I  must  allow 
There's  something  brings  me  hither  now. 

The  great  world  thunders  by  unheard. 

Here  there  is  neither  sound  nor  sign 
Of  all  its  life.    The  humming-bird 

Hums  on.    Unconscious  rove  the  kine. 
The  people  walk,  or  sleep.    Nowhere 
Is  felt  the  great  world's  throb  and  stir. 

Ah,  denizen  of  dazzling  street 
Where  life's  illusion  scintillates ! 

Of  hall  and  wall  and  gay  retreat, 
Dweller  within  the  city's  gates — 

Why  quit  such  gorgeous  state  and  come 

To  this  old  Town  of  Tedium  ? 

Is  it  because  on  yonder  hill, 
Behind  the  elm  tree  bowed  in  woe, 

The  old  brown  house  is  standing  still 
Where  lived  the  one  who  loved  you  so? 


IN  A  BACK  COUNTRY  TOWN  77 

Is  it  because  you  long  to  see 

The  places  where  She  used  to  be? 

Why  come  I  hither  ? — heart,  confess  ! 

So — 'tis  because  in  this  old  town 
I  last  saw  Her,  whose  lips  to  press 

I  would  to  dreamless  dust  go  down — 
To  clasp  and  kiss  once  more  as  then. 
Might  She  but  live  and  love  again. 


78  POEMS  ALL   THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 


The  Old  Blue  Spelling-Book 


AWAY  up  in  the  garret,  where  the  children  love  to 
play, 

I  found  a  wondrous  talisman  that  made  me  young  today ; 

The  wrinkles  quit  my  forehead,  and  my  silvered  hair  to 
gold 

Was  altered  in  a  twinkling  as  it  used  to  be  of  old ; 

All  manhood's  cares  I  cast  away,  all  troublous  thoughts 
forsook, 

And  conned  anew  as  I  used  to  do  this  old  blue  spelling- 
book. 

I  stood  up  in  the  schoolroom  with  the  children  in  a  row 
(The  teacher   always   chalked   a   mark  which   we  were 

meant  to  toe)  ; 

But  somehow  Billy  Barlow's  feet  were  always  out  of  line. 
And  Jerry  Sloan  was  very  prone  with  his  to  tread  on  mine 
When  Rosie  Lee  made  eyes  at  me  instead  of  at  himself — • 
I  knew  she  did  it  roguishly,  the  cunning  little  elf ; 
Though  I  forgive  her  freely  now,  so  dainty  does  she  look 
As  I  go  back  life's  winding  track  to  this  old  spelling- 
book. 


THE  OLD  BLUE  SPELLING-BOOK  79 

There  was  another,  nameless  here,  who  always  "turned 

me  down." 
Her  hair  in  amber  ringlets  hung,  her  bonny  eyes  were 

brown. 

She  wore  a  checkered  apron  and  a  bow  of  ribbon  red, 
And  if  she  deigned  to  glance  at  me  'twould  turn  my 

silly  head. 
Small  wonder,  then,  that  I  forgot  how  simplest  words 

were  spelt 
When  she  was  "Next  I"    I  missed  them  all — though  less 

chagrin  I  felt 
Than  when,  in  sterner  years  to  come,  love  put  a  word, 

and  then, 
Knowing  her  lesson  perfectly,  she  turned  me  down  again. 


80  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 


On  Lonesome  Avenue 


I  LIVE  on  Lonesome  Avenue 
Since  Martha  Wilson  moved  away ; 
I  miss  her  merry  eyes  of  blue, 

The  music  of  her  roundelay ; 
I  miss  her  cheery  words,  I  miss — 
It  soothed  me  so — her  gentle  touch ; 
But  oh !  I  miss  so  much,  so  much 
The  warmth  and  wonder  of  her  kiss ! 

I  marvel  why  she  moved  away — 
My  old  true  nurse  who  loved  me  so, 

The  maiden  mother,  wrinkled,  gray, 
But  heart  of  June-time  roses'  blow ! 

I  wonder  where  she's  wandered  to, 
Beyond  the  rim  of  things  that  be. 
And  does  she  dwell  forlorn  like  me 

Elsewhere  on  Lonesome  Avenue? 

Twas  Time  that  took  her — Time,  the  thief 
That  takes  our  many  joys  away, 

And  leaves  us  loneliness  and  grief 
And  blinding  bitterness  for  pay. 

?Tis  Time  has  made  the  cheeks  she  kissed 
A  bearded  grown-up's  visage  stern 


ON  LONESOME  A  VENUE  81 

And  lured  her  never  to  return, 

Beyond  the  barriers  of  the  mist. 

• 

And  so  on  Lonesome  Avenue 

I  bide  with  Memory  for  mate, 
Serene  and  sweet,  and  fond  and  true, 

To  fend  me  'gainst  accoutered  fate ; 
But  still  I  long  for  childhood's  feet 

To  bear  me  back  o'er  rose  and  thorn 

To  that  old  house  where  I  was  born, 
On  far-away  Companion  Street. 

And  still  I  yearn  for  her,  for  her 

Who  loved  me  as  a  little  child, 
Who  knew  my  heart  without  a  blur, 

But  innocent  and  undefiled; 
No  love  so  loyal,  none  so  true 

As  humble  Martha  Wilson's  ere 

She  went  away  and  left  me  here 
Alone  on  Lonesome  Avenue. 


82  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 


Wood   Scents 

OH  !  the  pennyroyal  scent 
And  the  broken  sassafras, 
And  the  snappy  pawpaw  blent 

With  the  mint  of  the  morass ! 
You  can  have  your  smell  of  roses 
In  the  city  garden  closes ; 
But  for  me—well,  thanks  !  Pll  take 
Perfumes  with  the  country  Jake. 

Ah,  this  goody-woody  smell 

Draws  me  back  to  boyhood  days, 
When  I  used  to  dream  and  dwell 

Where  the  misty  meadow's  haze 
Fashioned  mighty  towers  and  castles, 
And  the  bees  were  all  my  vassals, 
Bringing  honey  for  my  mouth, 
With  the  savor  of  the  South. 

Let  me  stay  here,  let  me  lie 

Here  along  the  forest  edge ; 
Not  a  wall  to  shut  the  sky 

From  my  vision,  not  a  ledge 
Save  the  cliffs  of  yonder  river, 
Where  the  willows  wave  and  quiver ; 
Let  me  smell  the  woods,  and  make- 
B'lieve  Pm  still  a  country  Jake. 


WISH  I W  FOR  FISH  IN'  83 


Wishin'  for  Fishin' 


GEE  !  I've  been  a-wishin' 
All  this  blessed  week 
For  to  go  a-fishin' 

Down  on  Possum  Creek. 

Used  to  dig  my  bait  there 

In  the  pasture  lot, 
Whar  the  worms  ?uld  wait  there 

Jist  for  to  be  got. 

Used  to  ketch  my  minners 

In  a  skeeter  net — 
Bait  for  big  fish  dinners, 

Best  they  ever  et ! 

Wa'irt  no  frills  nor  foolin7 — 
Jist  sot  down  somewhar 

That  the  fish  was  schoolin' 
'Long  a  sandy  bar. 

Had  a  pawpaw  sapplin' 

For  a  fishin'  pole, 
Two-three  hooks  for  grapplin' 

So's  to  git  'em  whole. 


84  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 

Chunk  o'  lead  for  groundin' — 
None  yer  reels  nor  these 

Hifalutin-soundin' 

Things  ye  sometimes  sees. 

Golly !  how  the  perches 
Bite  them  fishin'  worms  ! 

How  that  fish-pole  lurches ! 
How  that  beauty  squirms ! 

Takes  me  back  there  sorter, 

Jist  to  rickollect ; 
Seems  to  me  I  orter 

Go  today,  I  s'pect. 

Yes,  I'm  goin'  fishin' ! 

What's  the  use  to  work? 
See  that  line  a-swishin' ! 

Jiminy!  what  a  jerk! 


THE  THINGS  WORTH  WHILE  85 


The  Things  Worth  While 


OH,  the  things  worth  while !  the  things  worth  while ! 
The  winning  word  of  kindness  that' s  the  artist  of 

a  smile ; 

The  sunny  smile  that  sparkles,  reflecting  in  its  beams 
The  largess  of  devotion  and  the  liberty  of  dreams ; 
The  willing  ear  that  hearkens  to  the  harmonies  of  bees 
That  hum  and  birds  that  twitter  in  the  blossoms  and  the 

trees  ; 

The  happy  heart  responsive  to  the  touch  of  kindly  hands 
That  beckon  up  and  onward  to  the  lovely  Lotus  lands. 

Yea,  the  things  worth  while !  the  things  worth  while ! 
The  cheery  thoughts  we  cherish,  with  naught  of  gloom 

or  guile ; 
The  wholesome  hope  of  heaven,  and  the  sweet  surcease 

of  care 
We  find  in  lowly  homesteads,  for  love  makes  heaven 

there ! 
The  lisping  children's  prattle ;  the  mother's  croon ;  the 

dear, 

Delicious  warmth  of  feeling  in  the  fireside's  rosy  cheer, 
When  the  mellow  lamp  is  lighted  and  the  apples  on  the 

hearth 
Are  sizzling  in  the  radiance  of  the  rarest  place  on  earth. 


86  POEMS  ALL   THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 

Ah,  the  things  worth  while !  the  things  worth  while  ! 
The  tender  recollection  of  the  seat  upon  the  stile, 
When  katydids  were  calling  and  the  owlet's  answer  shrill 
Grew  mellow  as  it  mingled  with  the  music  of  the  mill ; 
The  buoyant  dreams  that  bubbled  like  the  water  in  the 

race; 

The  lifting  inspiration  of  an  unforgotten  face ; 
The  toil,  by  sweet  devotion  made  marvelously  light ; 
Love,  and  its  living  fervor,  its  mystery,  its  might ! 

So,  the  things  worth  while !  the  things  worth  while ! 
Let's  garner  them  and  guard  them,  and  rear  a  radiant  pile 
Of  golden  deeds  and  memories,  with  diamond  hopes  im- 

pearled — 

A  castle  made  impregnable  against  the  warring  world, 
Wherein  our  days  shall  blossom,  our  nights  shall  bloom 

with  stars — 

And  let  go  by  the  malice,  the  strife  that  maims  and  mars  : 
So  life's  serener  visions  shall  all  the  hours  beguile, 
If  only  we  shall  treasure  just  the  things  worth  while. 


IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  PRESENT  87 


In  Praise  of  the  Present 


GETS  there  be  who  tune  their  lyres  to   Days   of 

Long  Ago 

And  sing  a  song  of  sentiment  in  measures  sad  and  slow. 
To  them  the  golden  age  is  past,  the  golden  fleece  is 

clipped, 
The  rose  of  pleasure  hath  been  plucked,  the  cup  of  joy- 

ance  sipped  ; 
They  live  in  longing  for  the  lost,  the  dead  of  Might  Have 

Been— 

But  I,  a  bard  most  practical,  count  all  such  singing  sin. 
To  me  These  Days,  these  present  days, 
Have  fertile  fields  and  flowery  ways 
Wherein  my  fancy  fondly  strays  ; 
And  if  I  had  a  song  to  sing,  I'd  sing  about  These  Days. 

And  bards  there  be  who  rave  a  stave  concerning  Days 

To  Be, 

When  all  things  shall  be  lovely  and  luxuriant  and  free, 
When  Joy  shall  reach  her  chalice  down  to  thirsty  mortal 

HP 

And  certain  rare  elected  ones  to  drunkenness  shall  sip  ; 
The  bud  has  yet  to  blossom  and  the  honey  to  be  stored 
Ere  hungry  souls  may  sit  them  down  and  sweep  the 
festal  board. 


88 POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 

But  as  for  me,  I  say  These  Days 
Hold  pastures  where  my  soul  may  graze 
And  drink  delights  and  gather  bays ; 
And  if  I  knew  a  stave  to  rave,  Pd  rave  about  These  Days. 

To    me    These    Days    are    golden-tipped    with    goodly 

thoughts  and  things, 

And  Opportunity  but  waits  to  spread  her  splendid  wings 
At  my  command,  to  bear  me  up  and  make  my  vision 

wide, 
That  I  may  sweep  the  height,  the  deep,  and  know  them 

deified  1 

The  Golden  Days  of  Long  Ago,  the  Golden  Days  To  Be 
Are  not  so  wonderful  by  half  as  These  Days  are  to  me ; 
And  so  These  Days,  these  golden  days, 
To  me  are  rich  with  wine  and  maize 
And  minstrel-sweet  with  harvest  lays ; 
And  were  I  piping  Pan  himself,  Pd  pipe  about  These 
Days. 


THE  CHEERFUL  HEART  89 


The  Cheerful  Heart 


I    ASK  not  gold 
To  hoard  and  hold 
Beyond  my  need  from  day  to  day ; 
Nor  wealth  of  lands 
My  life  demands, 

Nor  stocks  and  bonds  to  file  away, 
Nor  costly  trophies  of  the  mart. 
And  yet  to  riches  I  aspire, 
One  splendid  jewel  I  desire — 
Give  me,  O  God,  a  cheerful  heart ! 

This  jewel  mine, 

I  shall  not  pine, 
Nor  seek  nor  strive  for  lordly  store ; 

'Tis  wealth  itself, 

Nor  power  nor  pelf 
Can  add  to  its  possessor  more ; 
From  it  shall  living  fountains  start 

To  pave  my  path  with  gorgeous  flowers ; 
I  crave  the  magic  of  its  powers — 
Give  me,  O  God,  a  cheerful  heart ! 

Let  others  strive 
And  think  they  thrive 


90  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 

In  getting  things  that  must  decay ; 
Of  these  bereft 
They  may  be  left 
Unfortressed  in  an  evil  day, 
Unarmed  against  the  spoiler's  dart. 
Contentment  such  protection  brings 
I  shall  be  more  secure  than  kings. 
Give  me,  O  God,  a  cheerful  heart ! 

The  cheerful  heart 

That  plays  its  part 
Exultant,  whatsoe'er  beset, 

Nor  frets  nor  fumes 

In  sullen  glooms 
That  make  disaster  darker  yet : 
Be  this  my  wealth,  and  if  the  mart 
Shall  yield  me  less  than  others  win, 
I  still  have  greater  store  within. 
Give  me,  O  God,  a  cheerful  heart ! 


THE  BOY  WHO  HAS  NO  SANTA  CLAUS         91 


The  Boy  Who  Has  No  Santa  Glaus 


THE  boy  who  has  no  Santa  Claus — 
So  wistful,  oh !  so  wan  he  looks 
Through  wondrous  windows,  making  pause 

To  gloat  upon  the  picture  books, 
The  Giant-Killer,  Mother  Goose : 
Alas !  poor  urchin,  what's  the  use? 

I  saw  him  standing  yesternight, 
His  nose  against  the  frosty  pane, 

Enamored  of  the  fairy  sight — 
So  fond,  so  friendless,  oh !  so  fain 

To  grasp  and  beat  the  painted  drum  ! 

He  dreamed  of  seeing  Santa  come. 

So  long  he  stood  and  looked  within 

I  thought  his  yearning  gaze  must  charm 

The  stalwart  soldier  made  of  tin 

To  rise  and  follow  through  the  storm, 

And,  standing  guard  above  him,  make 

His  dream  come  true  ere  he  awake. 

The  jumping-jack,  the  candy-cane, 
The  bugle  and  the  hobby-horse — 


92  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 

I'd  think  they  would  be  sick  with  pain 

And  sorrowful  with  deep  remorse 
Because  they  did  not  steal  away 
And  in  his  squalid  garret  stay. 

The  boy  who  has  no  Santa  Clans — 
Oh,  sadder  far  his  sorrow  is 

Than  all  our  grown-up  woes,  because 
We  have  no  wishes  such  as  his  : 

The  useless  yearn  of  childhood,  oh ! 

We  cannot  feel,  we  cannot  know. 

O  Little  Johnny  Loney  Boy, 
Pm  sad  and  sorry  for  you,  so  ! 

You  shouldn't  miss  the  perfect  joy 
Of  Christmas,  for  the  years  are  slow ! 

If  Pd  the  making  of  the  laws 

Fd  give  each  boy  a  Santa  Claus. 


MY  FOND   COQUETTE  93 


My  Fond  Coquette 

MY  fancy  knows  a  fond  coquette 
Who  made  mine  amorous  youth  complete 
On  life's  mosaic  echoes  yet 

The  pattering  laughter  of  her  feet. 

Her  voice  was  poesy  unkenned 

Of  transient  bard  that  sings  and  dies, 

Her  language  such  as  seraphs  blend 
In  praiseful  hymn  beyond  the  skies. 

God  knows,  if  God  knows  anything, 

The  budded  virtues  in  her  heart 
Bloomed  the  gay  blossoms  she  did  fling 

In  challenge  of  Dan  Cupid's  dart. 

Too  soon  she  went  to  other  ways, 

For  life  is  life  and  fate  is  fate ; 
But  still  her  halcyon  memory  stays, 

And  I  am  not  all  desolate. 

For  wheresoever  I  may  wend, 

O'er  thorns  that  pierce  and  sweets  that  bloom, 
This  coy  coquette  shall  still  defend 

My  heart  from  melancholy's  doom. 

My  genial,  joyous,  fond  coquette, 

Who  turned  my  bitter  bread  to  sweet, — 

Through  life's  dim  halls  I  hearken  yet 
The  failing  music  of  her  feet. 


94  POEMS  ALL   THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 


Just   to  Be  Loved 


JUST  to  be  loved.    That's  all ! 
What  else  is  worth  possessing? 
Just  to  be  loved  by  one  beloved — 
The  robe  and  crown  of  blessing ! 

Just  to  be  held  more  dear 

Than  aught  in  earth  or  heaven 

Else, — is  it  not  God's  plan  and  plot 
Our  life  with  sweets  to  leaven  ? 

Just  to  esteem  one  best, 

Most  servable  and  splendid, — 

May  we  not  leave  to  fate  the  rest 
If  life  be  thus  attended? 

Just  to  be  loved.    No  more 
Beseech  the  gods  to  grant  us  : 

So  stand  we  fast,  nor  fear  the  blast, 
While  sovereign  seas  enchant  us. 


EUGENE  FIELD  95 


Eugene    Field 


r^\ELIGHTFUL  ancient  in  a  modern  guise, 

Lx      He  walked  with  Horace  under  halcyon  skies. 

He  was  the  verdure  and  the  vine  and  fruit 

Of  gardens  romping  children  love  to  loot ; 

A  constant  and  reiterant  surprise 

Like  woodland  echoes,  now  his  voice  is  mute. 

In  him  did  nature  mould  the  merry  clay 
To  smile  with  smilers,  gayest  of  the  gay ; 
And  yet  in  turn  to  trickle  with  a  tear 
The  saddest  face  of  sorrow's  yesteryear  : 
A  jester  at  the  feast,  and  then  away 
To  fashion  posies  for  a  baby's  bier. 

The  world  his  toy  and  all  the  stars  his  own, 
He  taught  that  men  are  only  children  grown. 
He  played  with  things  that  others  dare  not  touch 
Lest  with  unholy  finger-tips  they  smutch. 
Leaving  to  wrangling  sects  the  great  unknown. 
His  creed  was  meagre,  though  his  faith  was  much. 

The  children's  poet  shall  we  name  him,  then? 
As  such  he  was  the  laureate  of  men. 
His  memory  green  we  keep,  say  not  adieu — 
The  genial  'Gene  whom  all  men  loved  that  knew  ; 
Whose  spirit,  fled  too  soon  this  mortal  ken, 
Amongst  the  immortals  laughs  with  me  and  you. 


96  POEMS  ALL   THE   WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 


A  Lyric  of  Tears  and  Laughter 


OH,  let  us  weep ! 
Let  bitter  brine 
Of  agony  steep 
The  heart,  let  sorrow 
To  gloom  consign 
The  day  and  morrow ! 

Ah,  let  us  weep ! 
Let  misery  borrow 
From  hells  to  be, 
Plunder  the  sea, 
Ransack  the  earth 
For  cares  that  creep : 
So  let  us  weep 
At  winged  mirth ! 

Nay,  let  us  laugh  ! 

Let  golden  joyance 

Fly  light  as  chaff 

Up  to  the  sky ! 

Who  knows  annoyance? 

Who  thinks  to  sigh  ? 


A  LYRIC  OF  TEARS  AND  LAUGHTER  97 

Ha,  let  us  laugh  ! 
Let  merry  laughter 
Shiver  the  air 
And  shake  the  rafter  i 
The  world  is  fair, 
Here  and  hereafter : 
So  let  us  laugh 
At  crawling  care ! 


98  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 


Junetime 


CAN  the  heart  be  sad 
When  the  world  is  glad 
And  the  smile  of  God 
Makes  the  pregnant  sod 
Mother  of  flowers 
In  the  bridal  bowers 
Of  the  Junetime? 

What ! 

Has  the  soul  forgot 
What  the  sense  has  not? 
Does  it  not  remember? 
Is  the  soul  December 
When  the  world  is  June  ? 

Ah !  soon,  too  soon 
Will  the  flowertime  pass 
And  the  myriad  grass 
Be  brown  and  sere ! 

Yet  we  shall  not  fear, 
For  we  know,  ah,  sweet ! 
That  another  year 
Will  the  tale  repeat 
And  the  flowers  anew 
Smile  up  to  God 
From  the  mother-sod. 
I  rejoice !    Don't  you  ? 


THE  MAIDEN  POESY  99 


The   Maiden   Poesy 


I     FOUND  her  virgin  on  the  hills, 
My  love  who  sings  and  laughs  and  weeps, 
Twin-sister  to  the  songful  rills 
And  daughter  of  the  deeps. 

She  led  me  forth,  she  lured  me  far 

Through  fairy  woodlands  gay  with  green, 

Where  nymphs  of  nameless  beauty  are 
And  she  is  Fairy  Queen. 

Her  face  is  fair,  her  eye  is  bright, 

And  when  I  kiss  her  lips  of  dawn 
I  drink  potations  of  delight 

From  founts  of  Aidenn  drawn. 

She  is  so  pure,  she  is  so  true 

That  when  I  touch  her  lily  hand 
A  spirit  thrills  me  through  and  through 

I  may  not  understand. 

She  weeps  with  me  when  I  am  sad ; 

She  joins  me  in  the  jocund  laugh  ; 
She  smiles  to  me — my  heart  is  glad — 

Gloom  lifts  away  like  chaff. 


100  POEMS  ALL  THE   WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 

And  so  I  dwell  with  her,  set  round 
With  daisied  splendor,  she  and  I 

A  love-wed  king  and  queen  uncrowned, 
Yet  sovereign  as  the  sky. 

And  so  I  wander  where  she  wills ; 

To  her  my  heart  exultant  leaps  : 
Twin-sister  to  the  songful  rills 
And  daughter  of  the  deeps. 


A  L  YRIC  OF  INTERL  UDES  101 


A  Lyric  of  Interludes 


AH,  restful  interludes  of  peace — 
White  foam  upon  the  furious  waves 
Green  step  between  the  graves: 

Dear  nooning  hour  of  glad  release 
From  irksome  toil  in  thorny  ways 
Which  burdens  all  our  days : 

Infrequent  flashes  from  the  clouds 
That  gloom  our  being's  firmament 
And  drink  our  soul's  content : 

Blossoms  upon  the  breasts  of  shrouds 
Wherewith  we  cover  up  and  hide 
Our  past  selves  that  have  died : 

Calm  eve  between  the  battle  fought 
And  one  to  be— with  honeyed  breath 
Unmindful  of  the  death : 

Delicious  hours  of  rest  from  thought — 
Sweet  respite  from  the  doom  of  pain 
That  racks  and  rends  the  brain : — 


102  POEMS  ALL   THE   WAY  FROM  PIKE 

I  welcome  ye,  I  woo  your  spell ! 

Let  hope's  high  star  grow  wildly  bright 
And  fancy's  wing  be  light. 

Let  songs  arise  and  music  swell 
From  waking  love's  delirious  lute 
And  lips  that  long  were  mute. 

For  life  not  all  is  soothful  ease, 
And  that  unbidden  hour  must  come 
When  lute  and  lip  are  dumb. 

So  let  us  haply  strive  in  these 
Alternate  spirit-calms  to  rise 
And  kiss  the  stooping  skies. 


THE  MYSTERY  103 


The  Mystery 


L 


IFE  is  a  goblet  bubbling  to  the  brim : 

One  quaffs  the  nectar  frothing  round  the  rim 
Sweet  is  it  unto  him! 


One  deeper  drinks  until  his  lips  do  meet 
The  dregs,  but  does  not  drink  the  cup  complete : 
It  is  a  bitter-sweet! 

One  drains  the  poison  dregs  that  seep  and  fall 
Through  to  the  bottom — drains  them — that  is  all 
'Tis  bitterness  and  gall ! 

We  know  not  why  it  is, — we  are  not  told ; 
But  may  not  this  some  consolation  hold : — 
The  goblet  is  of  gold ! 


104  POEMS  ALL   THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 


A  Vision  of  Fraternity 


I     DREAMED  that  once  again  mine  eyes — 
Long  shut  to  hope's  beflowered  ways — 
Had  glimpsed  a  dawn  of  radiant  dyes, 

Had  gathered  once  again  the  rays 
That  flush  the  fond  Utopian  skies. 

Upon  my  vision  vaguely  broke 

The  glamor  of  ideal  truth ; 
Angels  of  light  appeared  and  spoke 

The  trusted  tenets  of  my  youth, 
And  hope  again  within  me  woke. 

Methought  the  universe  was  crowned 
With  light  as  of  a  thousand  suns, 

Streaming  from  centre  unto  bound 
Of  brute  and  human  life  that  runs 

The  arc  of  ancient  worlds  around. 

I  looked  upon  the  iron  link : 
It  parted,  and  the  chain  was  rent. 

No  more  was  heard  its  horrid  clink 
Upon  the  limbs  of  captives,  bent 

By  torture  unto  Lethe's  brink. 


A   VISION  OF  FRATERNITY  105 

Xo  cross  was  raised:  no  banner  waved: 

No  prison  bars  bedimmed  the  light : 
Xo  rigid  law  was  deep  engraved, 

Defining  wrong,  defending  right : 
Xo  scaffold  from  the  ruin  saved. 

But  everywhere — on  every  side — 

Tall  spires  of  stately  Reason  rose, 
Temples  of  Justice  builded  wide, 

Topping  the  utmost  Alpine  snows : 
Alan's  Christly  conscience  deified. 

I  saw  that  idle  mastery,  bound 

And  throneless,  long  had  passed  away, 
And  honest  labor,  robed  and  crowned, 

And  laureled  with  the  victor's  bay, 
Its  high  reward  at  last  had  found. 

No  rush  for  gold :  no  fawning  greed : 

Man  loved  his  neighbor  as  himself, 
And  hesitated  not  to  deed 

Away  his  treasure-trove  of  pelf 
When  beckoned  by  the  hand  of  need. 

Ah,  love  was  free  to  all  mankind 

And  maidens  pure  as  Eve  at  birth, 
And  men  required  no  search  to  find 

Instinctive  elements  of  worth 
And  pristine  purities  of  mind. 


106  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 

So  moved  the  world  through  space  and  time : 
So  lived  the  monarchs  of  the  land — 

True  brothers  all  in  love  sublime, 

Empowered  the  passions  to  command, 

Annihilating  pain  and  crime. 

Love  held  the  nectared  chalice  up 

To  Virtue's  lips,  who  sipped  the  draught : 

Beauty  the  overflowing  cup 

Of  life's  refined  elixir  quaffed: 

So  faith  grew  strong  at  every  sup. 

I  hear  rude  sounds  that  vex  my  sleep ! 

Still  do  I  slumber  on  and  dream : 
And  who  would  make  me  from  my  deep 

But  fond  delusion,  whilst  I  deem 
That  man  no  more  shall  want  and  weep? 


LIBERTY  AND  LOVE  107 


Liberty  and  Love 


O  UNSHINE  and  roses, 
O     Open  sky  above, 
Pure  air  and  perfume, 
Liberty  and  love! 

Liberty  to  loiter 

Here  among  the  trees, 
Sister  to  the  songbirds, 

Brother  to  the  bees! 

You  and  I  together, 
Comrades  and  friends, 

So  let  us  linger 

Till  sweet  life  ends! 


108  POEMS  ALL  THE   WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 


Personality 


OUT  of  the  mad  and  maundering  crowd 
That  jostles  on  Ambition  Street, 
Where  every  lip  is  harsh  and  loud, 

I  guide  mine  individual  feet, 
On  life's  serener  purpose  bent, 
Through  quiet  suburbs  named  Content. 

Not  mine  the  ribaldry  and  roar 

Where  pigmies  clash  and  puppets  be! 

Me  the  melodious  voices  lure 
To  meadows  by  the  sibilant  sea, 

Where  deeply  I  may  breathe  the  balm 

Of  restful  interludes  of  calm. 

Mine  freedom  is  and  unrestraint, 
Nor  binding  task,  nor  bitter  bread, 

Nor  cruel  gibe,  nor  peevish  plaint, 
But  song  and  solitude  instead, 

And  opportunity  to  rise 

God-statured  to  the  starrv  skies ! 


A  MOUNTAIN  FANCY  109 


A  Mountain  Fancy 


RANGE  on  range  the  mountains  rise 
With  dimming  azure  to  the  skies. 
I  think  their  topmost  tufted  sods 
Are  trodden  by  the  feet  of  gods, 
And  the  thin  pure  airs  that  hover 
Over  the  crags  and  clefted  places 
Are  drunk  by  many  an  angel  lover 
Come  down  from  heaven  to  view  again, 
From  far  above  the  marts  of  men, 
The  unforgotten  loved  ones'  faces. 


110  POEMS  ALL  THE   WAY  FROM  PIKE 


An  Old  Man's  Comrades 


NAY,  pity  not,  for  I  am  not  alone ! 
Comrades  have  I  more  beautiful  and  true 
Than  those  who,  living",  walk  and  talk  with  you : 
Sweet  visitants  I  know  are  all  mine  own ! 
They  touch  my  hands  out  of  the  spirit  zone, 
Out  of  the  mist  of  memory,  the  dew 
Of  vanished  mornings,  these  my  faithful  few, 
More  loving  and  still  more  delightful  grown ! 

For  in  my  dreams  I  live,  and  here  with  me 

Sit  those  who  loved  me  when  my  beard  was  brown 

Six  prattling  children  clamor  for  my  knee, 
And  one  fond  woman,  whose  imperial  crown 

Of  golden  hair  still  glows  a  diadem, 

Quits  her  high  star  to  fondle  me  and  them! 


A  LOVER'S  RHAPSODY  m 


A  Lover's  Rhapsody 


ROSE-SCENT  and  star-gleam, 
Silver  o'  the  dew, 
Spice  balm  and  night  calm — 
And  you,  dear,  you! 

Liberty,  the  largess 

Of  dreams  come  true, 
Noon  o'  night  and  Luna-light, 

And  you,  sweet,  you ! 

Faith  and  fulfillment — 

The  true  soul's  due, 
Silent  lips  in  soul-eclipse 

With  you,  love,  you ! 

Hope,  yea,  possession, 

And  all  things  new, 
\Yhirled  away  (the  world  away) 

With  you,  dear,  you ! 


112  POEMS  ALL  THE   WAY  FROM  PIKE 


Monuments 

WE  are  bronze-molders,  hewers  of  stone, 
To  placate  sorrow  and  ease  her  moan ; 
Masons  of  memory,  skilled  in  the  craft, 
Yet  ever  and  ever  old  Fate  hath  laughed— 
Mocked  and  laughed  at  our  love  that  strives 
To  light  a  halo  for  burnt-out  lives. 

Fools  are  we  who  tread  on  a  star : 

Our  pigmy  vision  discerns  not  far. 

We  look  to  the  earth :  truth  looks  to  the  sky— 

From  the  small  to  the  vast,  from  the  low  to  the  high ; 

Forgetting  the  purport  of  inner  grace, 

We  chisel  a  form  or  paint  a  face ; 

To  the  hills  and  hollows  we  blazon  a  name : 

The  gods  lean  downward  and  cry,  "For  shame !" 

What  is  the  deed  that  under  the  sun 
Tn  his  period's  fullness  the  man  hath  done? 
What  is  the  work  his  hand  achieved? 
Duplicate  that,  and  ye  had  not  grieved! 
For  the  work  is  the  man  as  the  man  survives, 
The  diamond  cinder  of  burnt-out  lives. 

The  paint  will  crumble,  the  bronze  be  beat 
To  some  base  end  in  the  furnace  heat. 
Only  the  work  to  the  years  insures : 
The  marble  passes,  the  deed  endures. 


THE  NEW   THOUGHT  113 


The  New  Thought 


IT  grows  of  the  mists  of  the  gloaming, 
Out  of  the  dusk  of  desire, 
With  scintillant  starshine  foaming 
And  fresh  with  ethereal  fire : 
It  mixes  the  elements,  molding 
Form  out  of  orderless  things. 
Order   from   chaos,   holding 

The  might  of  the  world  in  its  wings — 
As  it  sweeps  up  the  steeps. 

Clearing  the  summits  gained 
By  the  past :  for  the  Xew  Thought  waxeth 
And  the  old  has  waned. 

It  is  great  with  the  greatness  solely 

Of  liberty  learned  of  the  vast, 
That  taketh  and  giveth  wholly 

The  power  of  the  infinite  blast 
To  smite  and  to  scourge  and  to  chasten, 

To  conquer  the  ranks  of  wrong. 
To  strangle  the  darkness  and  hasten 
The  days  of  the  light  along — 

Winning  strength  till  at  length 
Speeding  the  larger  days 
Of  the  race :  for  the  New  Thought  quickens 
And  the  old  decays. 


114  POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 


Stern  truth  is  the  forceful  lever 
That  makes  its  pinions  strong. 
And  hope  is  the  heightening  fever 

That  bears  it  blazing  along. 
It  cleaves  the  hindering  masses 

Of  murk  with  a  terrible  sword, 
And  strikes  from  the  clouds  as  it  passes 
The  latent  lightnings  stored — 
Till  the  might  leaps  to  light 
Out  of  the  dreamful  bed 
Of  the  years :  for  the  New  Thought  liveth 
And  the  old  is  dead. 

And  men  shall  be  bold  to  embrace  it 

In  warmth  of  desire  and  delight 
Of  lovers  who  kiss,  and  shall  place  it 

Supreme  on  the  sovereignmost  height 
To  blossom  a  dawn  to  the  waiting 

Chill  world  in  the  darkness  drowned 
And  mad  with  the  mutual  hating 
Of  serpents  that  slime  the  ground — 
Till  unfurled  to  the  world 

Banners  of  gorgeous  light 
Shall  appear:  for  the  New  Thought's  noonday 
And  the  old  is  night. 

It  shall  sunder  the  shackles  of  ages 

That  fetter  the  strong  man  down, 
And  death  shall  be  tyranny's  wages 

And  the  laurel  supplant  the  crown ; 


THE  NEW   THOUGH 7^  115 

And  the  people,  the  sovereign  people, 
Shall  rule  from  the  sea  to  the  sea, 
And  the  chain  shall  rot  in  its  staple 
And  life  worth  living-  be. 

Haply  then  maids  and  men, 
Given  to  love's  sweet  joys, 
Shall  be  pure :  for  the  Xew  Thought  maketh 
And  the  old  destroys. 

It  shall  enter  the  hells  of  the  homeless 

Like  the  cleansing  light  of  the  sun. 
And  never  a  head  shall  be  domeless 

Ayemore  while  the  rivers  run  ; 
It  shall  pierce  to  the  pestilent  city 
\Yhere  Luxury  drives  the  weak. 
And  forth  from  the  heart  of  Pity 
Shall  wakening  Justice  speak : 
And  the  pale  lip  shall  wail 

Xever  again  so  gaunt 

For  a  crust :  for  the  Xew  Thought's  plenty 
And  the  old  is  want. 

And  no  man  shall  filch  from  his  neighbor 

Or  find  that  his  neighbor's  hand 
Hath  plundered  the  fruit  of  his  labor 

Or  garnered  the  .gift  of  his  land ; 
But  temples  and  towers  shall  he  rear  him. 

And  marvelous  tomes  shall  he  write, 
And  the  ages  to  come  shall  revere  him 

And  bless  him  for  fi  -edom  and  light ; 


116  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 

And  his  soul  shall  be  whole, 

Freed  of  the  baneful  doom 
Of  the  old :  for  the  New  Thought's  glory 

And  the  old  is  gloom. 

Oh,  this  is  a  dream  of  the  morrow  ? 

But  ye  know  that  the  dream  is  deep 
And  dowered  with  the  truths  that  borrow 

No  fantasies  out  of  sleep ; 
For  the  world  not  yet  grown  hoary 
Shall  forget  its  childhood's  wrong, 
And  then  shall  the  lowliest  story 
Be  as  one  with  the  loftiest  song; 
Then  shall  might  yield  to  right, 

Beacons  shall  blaze  above 
Hailing  on :  for  the  old  thought's  Avarice 
And  the  New  Thought  Love! 


THE  THREE  GO  AGES  117 


The  Three  Oo  Ages 


LITTLE  Goo-Goo 
Is  a  pulpy  mite 
With  big  eyes  two 

Expressionless  quite, 
And  two  tiny  hands 

With  nothing  to  do. 
I  pity  her,  poor  thing ! 
Don't  you? 

Little  Boo-Hoo 

Is  a  sprightly  thing 
With  bright  eyes  blue 

And  a  tongue  to  sing ; 
But  she  cries  instead 

The  whole  day  through. 
I  hate  her,  naughty  thing 
Don't  you? 

Little  Coo- Woo 

Is  just  sixteen, 
With  dream-eyes  true 

And  a  month  serene  : 
Her  cheeks  are  fresh 

As   new-fallen  dew. 
I  love  her,  pretty  thing! 
Don't  you? 


118  POEMS  ALL  THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 


A  Lyric  of  Desires  and  Dreams 


FLASH,  O  mighty  fires 
Of  divine  desires ! 
Flow,  majestic  streams 
Of  diviner  dreams ! 
Never  slander's  breath, 
Cold  as  blasts  of  death, 
May  bedim  your  glow  ; 
Not  the  ice  of  doubt 
Freezing  round  about 
May  suspend  your  flowr. 

Flash  unto  the  east, 
Flow  unto  the  west, 
North  and  south,  nor  rest 
Till  the  greatest,  least, 
Drink  of  you  and  take 
Flame  of  you  and  flush 
To  the  north  and  south, 
East  and  west,  and  slake 
In  your  nectars  lush 
Thirsts  of  every  mouth ! 


A  L  YRIC  OF  DESIRES  AND  DREAMS 

Flash  and  flow?  nor  fail 
Till  the  groping  soul 
Toppling  on  the  brink 
Of  eternal  wail, 
Findeth  light  and  drink 
And  aspireth  on 
To  the  shining  goal 
Of  enduring  dawn ! 


120  ro EMS  ALL  THE   WAY  FROM  PIKE 


Henry  George  Memorial  Verses 

AT  final  verdict  Fate  is  just 
And  doth  the  living  laurel  twine 
For  what  is  true,  and  doth  consign 
The  false  forever  to  the  dust. 

There  lives  some  hero  of  the  wars 
Or  monied  monarch  of  the  street : 
Behold — we  worship  at  his  feet, 

Or  flash  his  valor  to  the  stars. 

Circle  the  planet  with  his  name 

And  shake  the  stars  in  his  applause, — 
Unless  he  wrought  in  righteous  cause 

He  has  not  won  enduring  fame. 

But  he  whose  charity  is  strong 

To  make  him  look  beyond  himself, 
Beyond  the  greed  for  power  or  pelf, 

To  love  the  right  and  hate  the  wrong, — 

For  him  the  willing  laurel  wreathes ; 
His  helpful  deeds  his  worth  proclaim 
From  land  to  land,  until  his  name 

Is  sweet  on  every  wind  that  breathes. 

For  him  shall  quenchless  beacons  flame, 
And  the  eternal  stars  shall  shed 
Eternal  lustre  on  his  head 

And  light  him  to  a  living  fame. 


THE   WINNERS  OF  LAURELS 


The  Winners  of  Laurels 


HONORS  cannot  be  told  on  beads,  nor  counted 
r>y  medals  on  the  breast,  nor  measured  yet 
By  breadth  of  victories  won  or  heights  surmounted, 

But  by  the  adversaries  boldly  met 
And  forced  to  issue — of  defeat  or  winning 
It  matters  not:  who  bravely  bears  a  hand, 
Though  unachieved  the  work  of  his  beginning, 
Earns  the  undoubted  laurels  of  the  land. 

Heroes  there  be  whose  deeds  remain  unspoken, 

Unbartered  to  the  nations,  grander  far 
Than  some  who  wear  high  honor's  garish  token 

And  captivate  men's  gazes  like  a  star : 
Heroes  of  heart,  who  labor  in  the  quiet 

And  lowly  ways  to  alleviate  distress, 
Knowing  full  well  that  fate's  remorseless  fiat 

Foredooms  their  deeds  to  dull  forgetfulness. 

\Ye  honor  overmuch  the  men  who  quarrel 

And   make   the  world's  great  brawls   and  break    the 

hearts 
Of  faithful  women — better  bind  the  laurel 

About  the  brows  of  soldiers  in  the  marts, 


122  POEMS  ALL   THE  WAY  FROM  PIKE 

Of  warriors  who  tilt  in  bladeless  tourneys 
On  bloodless  fields,  nor  slay  their  fellow-men, 

But  lift  them  up  and  help  them  on  their  journeys 
And  suffer  for  their  sake  and  strive  again. 

Then  let  me  lift  one  song  above  the  rumble 

Of  cannon-boom  that  vaunts  the  vulgar  great, 
One  praiseful  paean  for  the  heroes  humble 

Who  fight  unarmed  against  accoutered  fate. 
The  passive  metal  of  their  lives  is  hammered 

Upon  the  wailing  anvil  of  despair : 
For  them  no  torch  is  burned,  no  bell  is  clamored : 

God  only  holds  them  great  and  hails  them  fair. 


AY;/'/:  A' 


Never  Mind! 


WHAT   though  fate  be  harsh,  and  fill 
Every  breeze  with  words  that  kill, 
Every  wind  that  whistles  past 
With  a  noxious  breath  to  blast? 
May  we  not  go  forth  and  fare 
With  the  souls  that  do  and  dare  ? 
Never  mind ! 

Shall  we  craven  be  and  quail — 
Cowards  who  deserve  to  fail. 
Conquered  by  adverse  acclaim 
Of  vociferous  taunt  and  blame? 
Are  we  not  sufficient,  strong 
For  defiance  with  a  song  ? 
Xever  mind ! 

Who  shall  dare  oppose  the  soul 
Primed  and  poised  with  self-control? 
What  adversity  avail 
'Gainst  the  Will  that  will  not  fail  ? 
Hearts  of  iron  scorn  the  gyve! 
Opportunity's  alive ! 
Xever  mind ! 


124  POEMS  ALL   THE   WAY  FROM  PIKE 


Wherefore  shall  the  spirit  sink 
Forceless  while  the  heavens  drink 
Inspiration  from  the  cloud? 
Wherefore  shall  the  soul  he  bowed, 
Bludgeoned  though  it  be  and  bruised, 
Menaced,  thwarted  and  confused? 
Never  mind ! 

Triumph  tingles  in  the  air 
For  the  strenuous  hearts  that  dare. 
Whose  charges  with  a  cheer 
Thrice  is  armored  against  fear. 
Flash  the  blade  and  clash  the  steel- 
Wounds  of  yesterday  will  heal ! 
Never  mind ! 


APPENDIX  125 


Appendix 


My  good  friend,  Mr.  Jesse  Heylin,  City  Attorney  of 
Canton.  111.,  wrote  me  shortly  after  the  poem  "'At  Lin 
coln's  Tomb'"  was  first  published,  in  1895,  substantially 
as  follows : 

"You  have  put  up  a  fairly  good  brief — for  a  poet — 
but  you  should  have  taken  a  change  of  venue.  The 
capital  of  Illinois  was  Vandalia.  and  not  Springfield, 
sixty  years  ago/*' 

Reference  to  an  encyclopedia  gave  me  proof  of  this, 
but.  as  I  found  that  Springfield  became  the  capital  in 
1836,  I  hereby  enter  a  demurrer  to  the  astute  lawyer's 
friendly  insinuation  of  historical  inaccuracy  upon  my 
part.  It  will  be  observed  that  in  the  concluding  stanza 
of  the  poem  the  Hon.  Jason  Pettigrew  sets  the  date  of 
his  service  with  Lincoln  in  the  Legislature  at  Springfield 
at  "nigh  on  sixty  year"'  ago.  Lincoln  was  a  member  of 
the  Legislatures  of  1834.  1836.  1838  and  1840. 

The  Calhoun  Herald,  published  at  Hardin,  Calhoun 
County,  111.,  in  its  issue  of  March  14.  1895,  contained  an 
item  in  part  as  follows : 

"Our  readers  well  remember  the  poem  entitled  'At 
Lincoln's  Tomb/  that  went  the  rounds  of  the  newspapers 
a  short  time  ago.  It  represented  the  Hon.  Jason  Petti- 


126 POEMS  ALL  THE  WA  Y  FROM  PIKE 

grew  at  Lincoln's  tomb  soliloquizing  on  bygone  days 
when  Lincoln  and  he  served  in  the  State  Legislature, 
one  from  Sangamon,  the  other  from  'old  Calhoun/  Mr. 
J.  W.  Becker,  anxious  to  know  all  about  Pettigrew  and 
the  historical  sketch  of  the  poem,  wrote  to  the  Hon. 
O.  E.  Snedeker  at  Springfield,  asking  him  to  obtain  the 
desired  information.  The  inquiry  was  put  into  the  hands 
of  the  State  Librarian,  who,  after  careful  search,  reported 
that  nothing  could  be  found  of  Pettigrew.  As  the  poem 
originally  appeared  in  the  New  York  Sun,  a  letter  was 
sent  to  the  editor  of  that  paper,  asking  for  the  address 
of  Robertas  Love,  the  author  of  the  poem.  Mr.  Charles 
A.  Dana  promptly  furnished  the  desired  information." 

The  author,  however,  was  unable  to  discover  to  Mr. 
Becker  the  whereabouts  of  the  Hon.  Jason  Pettigrew, 
and  the  matter  is  respectfully  referred  to  Mr.  Heylin  of 
Canton,  whose  knowledge  of  the  history  of  Illinois  is 
more  accurate  than  mine.  R.  L. 


YC159077 


